By John Ogden
When the sun rose, I felt compelled to walk east.
By mid day, my hands grasped rough stone, and as I stood, let the breath of cedar and pine drop over and through me, I felt the first tear cross my cheek.
Soon after, there were too many to wipe away. I couldn’t stop them. I only stood there, let the memories of another time, another life
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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
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