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And when my cattle turned on me, I was knocked. back. flat.
I was knocked out cold for one clack of the train track.
Then I rose, a colossal hand buried, buried in sand.
I rose like a drover.
For I am, in the end, a drover.
― Gerneten-flüken cake (jed_), Thursday, 8 October 2020 23:30 (three years ago) link