The Hearth's "RACECAR RACECAR RACECAR" : Where Words Sooth, Erode, and Attempt to Remedy by Lee Folpe

Windows down. Music blasting. The wind in your hair. Exit signs, strange billboards, a succession of identical-looking sleepy little Midwestern towns. A clutch of empty 40s and tequila bottles clinking against one another in the passenger seat. The stench of old vomit. A pounding headache.

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