The Golden Song
The rain in the Appalachian foothills does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime wetter, heavier, pressing the mud of the trail into the porous skin of the earth. I am walking. My boots are heavy with clay and pine needles, and the weight of them is a familiar anchor, a physical reminder that I am still here, still breathing, still bound to the terrestrial plane of existence. I am a...
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