Death slows, never stops, racing
The California 200 and the California 8
You can picture it.
Sun gone down and the blue dark just coming up, the cool falling on you and on the desert, the heat draining out of the day, stars and moon rising, the smell of the sage and those creosote bushes, the feel of your bootsoles on the sand and the gravel and the way the dust powders your skin as the trucks fly past, the lunatic roar of it when they come and go, that rumble up from the Earth, the lights and the noise blinding and deafening and then gone, the sudden quiet, ...
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