The car becomes a cloud in the ravine next to the rutted lane called Dead Ant Street where a dozen of discombobulated septuagenarian hippies used to reside. They kept headless, formless, quadruped animals, each one on a separate ledge cut in the slope, each one possessing long, awkwardly gorgeous hair. The closer you came to the beasts, the more you lost your composure, but they remained calm until you began to count the hairs. It was too silent for a clock face to be seen.


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