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The Hitchhikers

The Hitchhikers, Diane Wakoski 'They burn you like the berries of mountain ash in August, standing by the road, clearly defined, Autumnal brilliant, heads scorched from waiting in the sun. How can you pass them up? But you do, and dream each night of a hell, where you are a hitchhiker, and no one will ever stop to pick you up...'

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