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As
the sun sets on the distant horizon, fresh air invades the senses. We roll into
town around the witching hour
looking for shelter to rest our bones.
Nothing better to clear your head than a good ole' dose of solitude
Bandits on the run take solace in a sleeping town swallowed in the dead
of night. Not a soul around
Nothing but the void Good thing
he's got an incinerator... it's like it was fate... Back | Table of Contents | Next
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