The Faded Dust
The road is not a line but a wound in the earth, a jagged scar that tears through the heath and climbs the spine of the hill, and you walk it with your boots caked in the red clay of the valley you have just left behind, the mud drying on your shins in stiff, painful crusts that crack with every step, every breath, every heavy labor of your lungs pulling the thin, cold air into your chest where...
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