He stands below moss covered roots, rising up from the ground, some as big as cars. Looking up the hill of the forest, he is silent. Still. Hunting.
The peyote had caused him to vomit for an hour or so, but he viewed the sickness as an expungance of innocence and ignorance. The end of a life provided by, the beginning of a life provided for. Colors enriched, sounds acute. He would become an animal here.
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