(I didn't write any notes for this piece of media. Foolish me!)



Laws aren’t ghosts in this country, they walk around with the smell of earth on them.

Everybody who tells you how to act has whiskey on their breath.

The past was a vine hanging on by just these five tendrils and it tore away easily, leaving her clean and blue and blank.

He feels the truth: the thing that has left his life has left irrevocably; no search would recover it. No flight would reach it. It was here, beneath the town, in these smells and these voices, forever behind him. The fullness ends when we give Nature her ransom, when we make children for her. Then she is through with us, and we become, first inside, and then outside, junk.

Lightning bolt
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