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Heat #83


In the deepest part of Lastwailing Wood there was no daylight. I couldn't tell if outside, out there in what used to be the remains of the real world, it was night or day. The only light came from the frequent lightning flashes which drove through the gaps in the trees like shining silver nails through soft wood. And for every flash there was a crack of thunder, a loud, deafening fracture as if my brittle universe was snapping apart.
I didn't want to hear it and covered my ears with bloodying hands as I pushed through the yielding undergrowth.

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