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The slope of the day rides overlong. Easing up imperceptibly to a peak which the traveller has forgetten they intended towards originally.

The traveller looks out from the precipice barely higher than the trough. They are dangerously close to the sky. It stains their skin.

Mick don’t care. Mick don’t walk. Mick don’t talk. Rig a jig, let the bull chime run. Whiskey for my Johnny. Mick came in riding on a donkey. Sick of salt and sea water.

Pulling into port for one last time. He’d come to kill and now was(more)