Dear Wigleaf,

I write this on the run. What's coming for me shall come soon for you, is all I can say. Something that tears deep furrows into the ground as it runs. Something that won't stop running until it finds you. There are so many now. Of them. I slept outside my car last night in the wilderness. The sound of sound has come apart. If only if I could hear them. All the new tortures have been replaced by the old tortures. The power lines are cut, Wigleaf. The engine won't turn over. An animal (or something) parts the wheat in the distant yellow field, coming closer, closer. This was to have been our Age of Happiness. What has happened? They make movies about contagion, but what about us? The best way, the rumor goes, is to just jump freely into the freshly dug pit, to spare yourself what comes before. But then a different meadow opens before me, Wigleaf, and the unreal sideways sunlight leads me to safety, to this hiding place, to this postcard, to these words: to you.


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Read NR's "Don't Look Back."

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