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poppies

you think it’s so gothic, this damp island of off-grid crazies. the original off-grid destination for shamed somerset and surrey manor-men escaping gambling debt and livestock ruin. the island of horrifying Black Lines, and of escaped convicts eating their weakest till the strongest finally dies alone of food poisoning. the world’s cleanest air recorded at the Grim Cape infamous for the massacre of the same name. the world’s stinkiest baby birds, waiting in burrows for either a mother’s mouth full of regurgitated krill or a tiger snake and death. then imagine mutton-birding; reaching your arm deep inside the same burrow and feeling the air inside. warm air meant an oily bird, cold air equals snake. these are things I have read in a book called In Tasmania, but there are also blue skies and fields of poppies.

poppies

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