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   Damn snow. If there’s any rhythm to walking over this stuff, it’s just in how consistently wearying my progress is. The road is smooth with icy powder, and slick in places, but not firm. And not deep either. It squeaks and crackles and set me back an inch or two every step. I watch my feet more than the horizon.
   Fuck it. I stop.
   There’s a high white overcast. The air is sharp and clear. Beautiful in a frozen, fucked up, empty way. My kind of environment. I watch my breath billow, and shift my pack. Breathe. Road breathing is three in, two out. It makes plumes like a factory chimney. I wonder about everything I lose breathing like that – heat, moisture – I should be thirsty but I’m not.
   I don’t know that I should keep going.