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Get the RAIL in print. She has fled to the desert amid impending charges of fraud and remains pathologically defiant. The blood is on their hands, on their home pages. All I ever wanted to do was help people. Jeremy will know what to do. Keep the wolves at the door. Free up cash for the legal defense fund. The old smoke, the old mirrors. Selling the dip will hurt, but optionality is compromised. The cabin will suffice. Its back porch abuts the park. Might even be within its borders. Grandfathered into the public land, like those resettlement fetishists outside Jackson Hole.
The back-to-the-landers in Central Maine. How likely is another one? Answer: as likely as I determine. I have the tools and the ability. Eureka waits on the other side of a fixed number of thoughts. Within the Zone of Utmost Throb. Commit your energies, Stevens. You are sharp of mind and fantastically anabolic. Focused in a land of focus. I will be pilloried in the commons. A humbling. Something to be wrenched for pathos in the biopic. The a. Sunrise two minutes later than the almanac said, so I waited on the porch for the sky to lighten enough to see the road.
Wrote my name in the air with my big toe. Something about the air affects the joints, though that could be age. The sunrise took forever. Once that yellow band crested the ridgeline I set off. The cold dissipated by mile three. My right outstep needs work.
Plus there are fewer than a hundred miles left in the shoes. Get the boy to order a new pair. The road is still unforgiving. Like running on hardpack— no bounce at all. But I stay between the ruts of the tire tracks. I can guarantee an efficient line. Plus the ruts force me to pay attention. A sprain would be lethal. And if I did die? But that is what objective observers do.