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It was a dull, drab, wintry morning. The active snowfall had come to a halt for now, and the landscape was left with snow-dusted pines and a sparkling blanket of icy powder coating the entire mountain. It was as clear as crystal, as chilly as could be, and as still and silent as a stagnant pond. Tommy could even see the hot air coming from his nostrils with each exhale.

Tommy was used to the cold. He was used to being cold. He had grown up in New England, for Christ's Sake. However, this was probably the chilliest place he had ever been by far. The young adult had stepped outside only to smoke for a few minutes, and even in an insulated jacket, the cold was settling into his fingertips and toes. He glanced over the pure-white landscape observantly and calmly before taking a drag of his cigarette, inhaling in the sweet toxins, and breathing it back out into the atmosphere. Tommy had to cut down on smoking significantly because of the lack of product, which was super irritating to him, so these moments were well-spent and thoroughly enjoyed.

( this is Lame but i've been out of the writing flow with tommy for so long so just,, bear with me sodkdsk )
 
FLINTLOCK LODGE / CLICK FOR BIOGRAPHY


MY BOY, MY BOY, MY BOY DON'T LOVE ME LIKE HE PROMISED
[align=center]my boy, my boy, my boy ———————————— he ain't a man and sure as hell ain't honest
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* strawberries & cigarettes / open
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TOMMY DEVITO
[div style="width:235px; min-height:1px; padding:px; line-height:110%; text-align:justify; color:#7d484d; font-size:10pt; font-family:arial;word-spacing:24px;margin-top:-30px;"]I'D RATHER LAUGH WITH THE SINNERS THAN CRY WITH THE SAINTS
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* strawberries & cigarettes / open - by TOMMY - 02-18-2019, 04:45 PM



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