Whenever I go here I think about your decrepit body wandering around between the trees. The trees are all women, split in two by flash-phallic lightning. I think about you being alone and quiet. You are an observer. And when you speak it is a small, steady utter which carries across the crater. The newly-shorn sheep gather around you but don't come too close. They are fitter than you and wary. You are wary of the other people but like the sheep. So because you are wary of the people, and the sheep are wary of you, you are alone.
This is my imagined version of you.
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