Off to the Gulf and hoping to have the time of our lives, We found but the signs of fever there: the prostrate horizon, Unable to drink of the distance, and only appearing at sundown, In a clear condition of length, to show any strength at all.
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We reached the car, and I held the door open for him, but he didn't climb in right away. He stood there rocking on his crutch, gazing off at the sky and the fields and the fall trees starting to go the color of sherbet