I stop my car just beyond dessicated strawberry fields. I watch a plywood shack for signs of movement. The only motion is the drift of old ghostly memories that aren't mine. I pocket my butterfly knife with bruised fingers, and drive on.
I meet an old woman with scarecrow worries in the center of town. We talk of exploration past the cacophony of collegiate zombies. We nod to one another in conspiratorial agreement over dumplings and seaweed. I thank her by way of voiceless sincerity. She understands and offers to pay for the meal.
As always, I decline.
9:16 p.m. - 2015-10-20
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