Composures

All We Are Is Blunts In The Wind

Rodger postures alone by himself under a cover of clouds at sometime in the late afternoon in a large grass field in a bog. Behind Rodger in the grass field are boglands before a distant thicket of trees. Rodger has a blunt of green. “I burn green,” says Rodger lighting the blunt of green huffing a cloud of white smog.

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