As I walked towards home, I thought about this place where I lived; how strange it was in its familiarity. It was almost indescribable; this glum acceptance of where I lived, and an almost downbeat appreciation of whatever was right or wrong about this place, it was formed out of these moments of routine. The track the cows walked on was built from local scoria, cambered for drainage, yet I still know its potholes as intimately as the cows that formed tracks around them.
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