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63 Trans Wales In Snowdonia, shale drags the hillsides down. Power cables pour rainwater on road brush where shoulders would be. I’d like to run this car down a trench and leave it to rust. I’d be lodged somewhere past the engine but before its trunk—maybe through the windshield. This morning I woke in a northern hotel bed. Curtains trembled behind a newspaper-sealed window. By tonight, I will be wandering gum-stained Swansea side streets, watching scholars pee behind chain link fences. There will be bombed-out castles whispering to statues everything there is to know about patience. A sports fan will be kicked in the gut until he’s empty and his rugby jersey bleeds. Instead, I could be laid-out here, on Snowden in a rented two-door, as good as a victim, wrecked. ...

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