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Lost in the Woods It's usually theraputic -- beautiful bends and whorls, pine, oak and sky. I could walk it with eyes closed, almost cut my way safely to free fires and light...almost. Last time was a crime against nature, unnatural. Saturated with sweat, football fields from the truck, I would've bet on the path back. But I looked -- it was strange, elfin, alien; the sun was turned, askew; new -- everything -- like it was laid out on Mars, the moon (but trees were still there). I stared... looking for a familiar bend, whorl (world gone wrong). Where was the truck? Where I? Why this loss, like any tracker blood had bled into the hungry dirt. Why this squirt of fear, trembling, toasting my canteen to green ghosts? I did get back...somehow. My truck looked like King's X, sanctuary, home. Sometimes when I'm alone, quiet, staring into a safe flame I sweat, cold, telling myself I'm just the same (but already dead) wondering about the bends and whorls in my mind.
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