Inky fingers. Sand in your hair. Tiny flecks of blood soaked into denim. Metallic sting of rust rubbed off and ground in, lost in your skin. Micro-organisms teeming, dismantling and collecting, squashed against one another. Smell of sweat and sunburn, baseball caps, a blast from the past, eating your present, biting big and angry, teeth crunching and buckling, and iron doors closing underground. Keep your head up, back straight, don't slip on that ice, keep your head up, don't look down, there's a way out, there's a way out.
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