Hungry.

Not for long.

Implements of torture!

Useless.

Remember that poor fuckin' things you tried to put away in a box and bury underneath a repressive amnesia.

I'd walk right into the horizon.

There was a dead rat behind that door, so it was an indicator of what I wandered into.

At an abandoned church in the Texas pandhandle, I faced a similar instance where sleet poured the second I took this phone picture.

Nightime—darkness—followed instantly. If conditions were clear, I could see plenty of stars.

I can also channel dogsona there.

Transition goals.

But are you strong enough to open a pickle jar?