"Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity..." --John Muir, 1898
I lay down on that red, sun-baked sandstone And wept for you For me Unblinking for seasons Until sand leaves snow moss filled my eyes And the retinas detached The bloated darkness torrid sultry at noon But still you did not come
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