Past Tense: We’re Stuck! A Not-So-Festive Look at an Enduring Travel Tradition
Late one night, in the early part of each November, there occurs an annual phantom hour. It creeps into the deserted region from 1 to 2 in the morning, and then vanishes, leaving everything changed. From this moment, 50 degrees is warm, not cold. Sunsets are confined to the realm of memory. Conclaves of blood-red…
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