Travelling West.

Cattle-ranching was a thing of those days along with four or five more elements, and the topography was such that it pushed any man to the edge. He had to be as strong as he could be and if that did not happen then he was soon eliminated by fate or by the bullet of some devil’s gun or whip and which was it, it didn’t matter much. From my own experience, not much is known to me. I am travelling to a certain land, that simmers in the same harsh conditions, through a path that I am yet to find out. And I am alone in my travel, and hence, quite curious. As alcohol begins to rot my lungs, I am slowly getting transported there. There I am, riding on something tall, a black steed and the moon is full and hot and raining on everything. To my left is one tree and and to my right are none and as to how far they really are from me, I cannot tell. I am not to travel in that direction. Sitting under a tree won’t do my soul any good. This is no time to rest. I thought the land would be a lot smoother, but as I look ahead I can see it rising and falling quite often. Good for my horse. If I crash into the mud, it will take some time to get me up. And while I am trying to get me up, what will my horse do is quite a mystery to me.

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