The Pipes Man limbered up to the corrugated barrier with wild eyes. What lay behind may be a fragment of what he had long left behind, but he pressed forward into it regardless, scraping his gut painfully as he took the fence.
Patches of green broke the dust and clay, a solitary crow flew up to a solitary tree. He recalled long walks with Centurion before things had gotten complicated, and wondered why he bothered with anything at all. Such a tedium to shoot a tree. A bore to make anything of this other than what it already is, when a rendering by his eye can only be inferior to actually just being here and enjoying a moment of calm.
The Pipes Man tried to enjoy his moment, but the machine itched and he felt like tearing the fucking thing out.
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