Comment: As I was rounding Adams

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As I was rounding Adams

As I was rounding Adams street the fog grew thick, I noticed the pavement begin to break apart and grow thinner, turning to pebbles before I was on cool damp grass.

I looked up and saw a gravestone a pace away, on it engraved American nation, 1776- ...

I stumbled past the stones, each more faded as I neared the gate, and when I was out I was walking among farms and sparsely dotted pathways recently ripped from the forests, which seemed almost still alive.

Arrows whizzed past my head and I head loud unnatural shots, explosions not quite uniform in type. I ran far, into the thick recessed of the woods, and tripped into a brook.

I slept the night, half unconscious and woke to see a badger sipping cool, pure water from a stone perch, wiped the mud from my bruised face, took a drink and washed away the dried blood.

I stumbled back by my tracks and came to a wide lane with a large farm and what looked like a scene out of a colonial era play, hooped dresses, men in the wildest wigs and done up most exquisitely in 18th century attire. One had to pause and admire the effort that went into that style.

I inquired and it was the old Adams farm, and I was on it, but despite my odd out of place appearance I was welcomed in and refreshed. I came to the center of attention, in the great wide sitting room of the stately house, close to a large burning fire and the sweetest smells I ever recall smelling.

I sat across from the man, Adams, and he listened as I told him a terrible story out of my head of the next 250 years. When I had finished, he was was more frightened than me.