reading smithsonian

I want to be a hand of some sort on a cattle farm.

I want a small house. A converted garage with hardly anything in it. I want hardly anything in it.

I feel small.

I want to touch my hand to the bull, pat the dust off his coarse hair. I want to put my face up near his face and feel it breathe. Something big.

The back part of the bull, the part I imagine patting, it becomes the Round steaks.

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