species, and this bro wasn't going to halt the squatches like the newly paved interstatesdid back in the 50s in the American West.
Not to keep harpin', but, at this juncture, don’t get into “climate change” based
on the wildlife in the crispy flatlands; hone in on these bros' lack of free time; thenature of work and the conquest of slavery: the engine of progress. These shifts are way more important than anything like the evolving amounts of salinized water
affected by the moon. A better question is, “Can you even sell yourself as a slave voluntarily?” What can a bro give up in his own interest, from his perspective? Thisparticular bro we’re tailing has no time to talk to people, fri
ends or otherwise; he only earns those minutes by assailing the terrain in order to get Advil and possibly someciprofloxacin for whatever is wrong with him or he just maintains his residency in alean-to in order to make an enormous land claim. Even for us to care enough to beon his trail is empathetic to a degree that makes people nervous, overflowing with thesticky dread of becoming involved, like seeing a downbeat hobo kicked off a traininto similar rocky flatland, knowing full well that there used to be a
acceptanceof vagabonds; they were part of the way things go, or went.
He figured trekking to the next city was just one of the time sucks of getting
free land; there wouldn’t be doctors in this area for years. He thought it was like CEOs
who live in an idyllic isolation but are forced to drive 30 miles to company headquarters; you just can't everything both ways.
His backpack was filled with Gatorade (the previous formula, before they removed brominated vegetable oil) and thousands of hard pretzels; some were ruinedby being left in a moist storage corner where they kept food and tools, though they were probably still edible, considering this was a life and death situation; on foot thisshould've still be enough to make it to a pharmacy.
In England they’d call this kind of traveling “wild camping,” but it’s misleading since there’s no road, path, or trail at all, there’s no traffic in this area, no reason for
any bro to go to the next city; in fact, travel is more deadly than useful. This particularbro happened to be ill, sicker than anyone had been in a long time, not unlike when Jacquin got stabbed in
, except the geographic isolation here verges on
“involuntary,” no opt
has what is generally considered the worst trick ending in recent
memory. Plants makin’ folks off themselves doesn’t keep us up at night, and they don’t make any bro wary about going into a dark kitchen with a dripping faucet, but
we know angry plants have just the kind of boring, yet effective, eccentricity that