The sun don't shine
The moon don't move the tides
To wash me clean
-Robin Trower
The sibilant whisper of a dying breeze carries the echo of ancient laughter, distant and dying.
Sun-scorched skies flicker orange and red on the far horizon.
And the kiss of stone against well-worn leather is an empty, lonely thing.
Wanderers come here. Most ignorant, but a few...a few must see and feel.
The not-quite-vanilla scent of ambergris...something clean...but something buried.
Feel the dirt beneath your fingernails, the rich smell of loam and peat moss on your hands and knees.
Take one last, long breath...turn your back to the sun, and your face toward the moon, and home.
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