by Amy Nemecek
We followed him to the top of this great, high Mountain, grew heavy-eyed, footsore. I stuck one of those barking dogs into my open mouth before cloud-command shut it fast.
When our fathers approached your holy Mountain, brushing a blade of grass meant death. Now the Mountain clasps my shoulder, tousles John’s hair, slaps James on the back as we follow him down, still very much alive.
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