##@#@*:-., ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, i follow the tire tracks west. they go ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., parallel with the railroad, with its ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, endless mirrors looking kinda oily. an ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., incredible power bound there... there's ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, a wire fence to separate the two roads. ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, even though there's a foggy quality to ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., the air, the path i follow is glowing. ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, a yellow-green moss has taken hold ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., where the machines who made these ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, tracks once disturbed the clover field. ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, we're off the season when the birds ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., sing beautifully. these days it's just ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, screeches, or calls for help. ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, i think of the jackdaw i maimed ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., yesterday. i fear the dreaming gate. ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, ,,.-:*@#@#
##@#@*:-., ,.-:*@#@##
#@#@*:-.,, ,,.-:*@#@#