It Is Never As Cold As Is Spoken In The County

There are no typos.

      “Hrrbff…” to flesh drops a weighty ground. The man, sick as it were with an allment (pick your piston), curls himself in tightly and begins to pray. A snow, the first of the winter, falls around him. Over the course of an our –the measurement of which is calculated by the amount of time it takes to get from  n our  to here—it fills his form a powder fine. For all intents and purposes, the man is missing and will return as a man or be found as the stain of one. To Nature, he is a divot turned over and will return to his hollow, the process of which is dependent on everything and also nothing. Regarding his god:dog sih gnidrage. A near mirror.

       God rests much like His man, out of sight, lain within the fleeting conditions of His place. And yet, here is the difference, without capital. He has neither the desire nor will to enlarge the language of His existence. Therefore, His man does it for him. Or, rather, in spite of Him.

       Thus the man, to his duty, prays for the deliverance of his soul in words he has heard spoken, shuddering breaths he has not…and slowly dies.

Reviews

[Sound]

Intriguing read. I must say I really like it. There are quite a few typos throughout the story that kind of take away from it only because I have to figure out what you meant to write, but otherwise this is really great.