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The hills rolled beneath a boy with his dry biscuits and jam. Sheep nestled into the grass around him like sugar on a hot cake. Sipping greedily from his thermos to cool his dry throat, he kicked around a few loose stones. They tumbled recklessly from his perch, scattering the stupid sheep. Sun peered intermittently through bloated clouds. The quiet.
Packing his mule to head back to camp, he found his heart racing now. Even in his drawn, lazy state his body pulsed energy from deep within. And then he rounded the corner and a fire ignited his dulled eyes. The whine of a battered harmonica talking to the still, dark air.
If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,The appetite may sicken, and so die.