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Notes from Death Valley

The following is the kind of prose that results after driving around Death Valley (pictured above), and then having a few too many drinks in Las Vegas: I woke up this morning, and there was nothing left. Like desert. I was no longer me. I was an empty landscape. Things had to be moved around, boulders and brush and such, to make a something. But the something was inchoate, like a mound of clay waiting to be formed. There was no real shape, just potential shape. All the things: the earth-smelling waters, waters that tasted of mineral and metal, had not yet coalesced to form veins; the muck had not yet become sinew and flesh. The ‘I’ was gone, and the lack of substance and texture was filled w

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