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The real tools are the sketchbooks, the whiskey, maybe then, the knife. I take these with me, on the trail, on the road, seeking sense where there may be no sense to discover. The wild is jealous and forever gorgeous, all we can do is worship and follow.

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A thunderbird. My private totem. My expressed freedom. Whatever would we, or could we, be without our personal angels? These vapors, these wretched saviors, that at once, would either protect or devour us. An arbitrary decision, really.

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Wildcrafting with Juniperridge.com. Take these fragrances: a particular kind of real therapy. Mending unknown broken parts. You have license.