The Distant Joke
The mud on your boots is the same color as the blood that will eventually leave your body, a fact you do not yet know, but the earth knows it, and the earth is always patient, always waiting for the next drop to settle into its dark, wet loam. You are walking. You have been walking for three days, perhaps four, the distinction has blurred in the gray mist that hangs low over the heath, clinging...
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