dreams of a wistful nomad (1.0)

DREAMS OF A WISTFUL NOMAD By Paul Crask the nomad Nestled on the brow of the grassy hill was a cemetery whose weathered headstones had been ground smooth by both the passage of time and the bluster of the seasonal mistral. Half encircled by a broken picket fence, once whitewashed but now flaking and sun-bleached, […]

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boiling lake

I’m walking to the boiling lake on Friday. Maybe I’ll see you on the trail. I’ll be the fella who’s 6-month-old Merrells are already falling apart, dammit. postscript My shoes made it, just. They’re now falling apart on my porch. It was a nice walk, though rainy on the return journey. Bumped into a few […]

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