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In Omaha we walk along an artificial river. Lost, late, looking. For something unknown. Knowing there’s only nothing. The sky turns dark and angry, throws hail at the earth. We run, seeking cover. Finding none, we run. The sky turns blue and bright and the birds come out to play. We find a place of rest. A place with chairs and whiskey. All you want is sleep. But you’re concussed. So I stay up all night telling you stories. So you don’t die.