At some point, everything folds in on itself in that very way in which an illusion dies of its lie, collapsing onto the superstructure, pierced by its own bones.
I stood beneath a fast moving strand of clouds. It was shaping up to be a real boomer. There was no point for me to be out there. All the cows were in the barn. I could have gone at any time to open the gates. But there didn't seem much point in changing my routine. I stood in the empty field as the storm brooded away.
I wrote fiercely with my torch, telling who knows what to the stars. I was writing about bigfoot again, up there in the sky. What else could I do?
I was writing the story of bigfoot standing in my place writing the story of me on his own cloud-strewn night.
As I stood there on my vigil near the tracks, a great and ominous cloud spat spikes down into my light. Perhaps the heat of my beam catalyzed something within the thunderhead so it growled that unseemly groan.
I moved down toward the tree line and turned off my light.
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