Find the sinkhole


I have decided to write the gray American novella, where nothing is great just chalky grey like the Greys pasty anatomy of conspiracy theories where secret service reptilian half-breeds are always British.

Meanwhile, the natives are restless and a stretch of doom creeps, breathless.

Jagged ex-whys and all the imagination in dream land won’t fix a fork in the road, bone spurs on a road less traveled, for a reason.

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