Serrated clouds claw the hills in the distance, with the roar and thunder being mistaken for aeroplanes and mopeds.
My own pit lay open, it has been since those days last summer. It was the knowledge that anything will (shall) come, anything.
And there's only two things. Fight or die.
I was dying. I have been since the day I was born; lately I have that sense of pressing urgency which I can relate to a person (yes, you, but not just any you, just you. Only you).
I will the clock to pause and race at once. To pause my descent into the maelstrom of the day, and to race toward that empty station, to find out. I'll leave Doc Martin to ponder that one, for I'm just a dunce.
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