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My city is this: a battleground. A place where peace took root and festered, bitten out by the jaws of the Beacons. Left like a corpse, where flowers bloom despite. They hitched their bindles high and trooped out, east and south. There is no more bitterness here, just an ecstatic wind-rush, a sense that we now belong. We've inherited this earth, let us grow in it. Welcome to Bremerton, home of a ruined college, home of a hundred loners. Please send help, let me know the world is till out there. I miss the days when I traveled, when the planes flew freely and I didn't have to risk exposure to a few days just to see Stockholm, or flitter from one airport to another always a layover, always a cross-country road trip just to get somewhere else.
|Hartier||Series||Hartier: 1 | 2 | 3 – Postcard: 1|
|Postcard||Series||Postcard: 0 | 1 | 2 | 3|