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Will They Bite?
Maybe we should all start walking to the sea where space shuttles go to die. Where the lobsters creep and crawl, snapping their claws at familiar house guests. They want to bake an apple pie, construction of the American Dream, but the ginseng woodlands block the way. They attempt to pave a new route, covering the ancient stones with broken shells and fallen leaves. The ground is too thick. Scattered across the dirt are many hour-glasses with mercury instead of sand. Within the woodlands sits a man high on his own dopamine. Is this where we begin?
