Somewhere out there they are chasing him down. They are running him to ground. The last Great Free American Man, his clothing torn by brush and bramble; his back bent close to the ground, moving quickly, quietly, a harried crouch over rough terrain. He can hear the dogs, their pullulating howls echoing in broad pools of sound coursing over his head. There are no more defensible positions, no more valiant stands. He feels fear and the ache of burnt adrenaline twisting his muscles into clumsiness. He is so thirsty, a need so great it is nearly iron.
Bitter is the Taste
Bitter is the Taste
Bitter is the Taste
Somewhere out there they are chasing him down. They are running him to ground. The last Great Free American Man, his clothing torn by brush and bramble; his back bent close to the ground, moving quickly, quietly, a harried crouch over rough terrain. He can hear the dogs, their pullulating howls echoing in broad pools of sound coursing over his head. There are no more defensible positions, no more valiant stands. He feels fear and the ache of burnt adrenaline twisting his muscles into clumsiness. He is so thirsty, a need so great it is nearly iron.