There's something frayed and authentic in your descriptions, flowing in front of us like slippery clouds over a red desertic ground. The encounter with the cub, the dust trail in the distance, the discovery of the pink substance and the father's last talk: everything is portrayed with mature brush strokes in a style reminding of Kerouac.
"We grow fast or not at all". What a way for Thomas the weaklin' to learn this lesson.
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