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He catches the ozone bass of the rain clouds, and the tart mid-range sterility of the grass and earth, and some high, treble note he can't place. But nothing dangerous, nothing human or half-human. Not yet.
Most places just are something, but America had to mean something too, hence her vulnerability -- to make-believe, to false memory, false destiny. And finally it looked as though the riveting struggle with illusion was over, and America had lost.
Mental ill male tunnel path digging with elbows, driving with own knees so escape, possible able spread insanity infection.
We carry our family inside of us. It's who we are.
Blue sky, no cloud mask against admiration of sun.
Maybe God only moves stuff around when I'm not looking.
Beaver One: 'You know how to build a damn?'
Beaver Two: 'Gnaw, man.'