He stood in the road outside of town with a broken clockwork toy in
His hand: a graveyard for childish dreams in his palm; a broken lifeline.
The mechanical amusement sputtered in his fist. as he clenched, it
Whirred and died again. it was a cowboy who drew his gun, but the
Pistol was welded to the holster by age and careless children, so it
Struggled and strained and it unwound his own spring.
He didn't need tattoos to show where he had been and who he had loved....
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