The Golden Circuit
The wind in the Appalachian hollows does not whisper. It screams. I am writing this from the porch of a house that does not exist on any map. The wood is slick with rain. My hands shake. I cannot stop them. They tremble like leaves in a gale. I have been walking for three days. My boots are ruined. The leather is soft and black with mud. I look at my hands. They are my own. I touch my face. It...
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