An unleashed maniac
skulks through the fog,
his gaze trembling and fevered.
"What to do?"
he asks the wind.
"Keep going.
You're nearly there,"
comes the reply.
He licks his bottom lip
and smiles
at the salty cruft.
Another step,
then a dozen,
then a dozen more,
and ten more dozen.
And he hears no more words,
no more hints or clues.
Only the sound of air
against the walls of his nostrils.
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