Lake Lewisia #339

[scrubjayspeaks]

“I can never leave the dirt of my grave,” she mourned, a wraith of silver mist poised atop a marble headstone. The visitor, a hitchhiker who knew no fixed abode in life and couldn’t imagine being bound to one in death, asked, “How would you feel about a bit of light grave desecration?” He thumped his battered backpack, saying, “Because I have room for some dirt, and bones if need be, if you’ll tolerate carrying your grave with us instead.”

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LL#339