Crunch, crunch, crunch Wind from every direction raises a fine, red dust, dry as fire from the spirit's fingers that invite me forward, toward him, away from where I started. To the edge; the end. Boulders frame the path, and my footsteps, which inch closer to a darker, colder, wider space. Look at how high we are; how high I am. It's how high I've always been I guess, in spite of myself. Thousands of feet in the air, I look over a vast expanse under a thick, black blanket. The spirit calls me forward, over the edge; to something great. Something for which the world will know me.
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