Broken, bloodied, my stomach churned to pieces. I stumble to awaken, one eye open gathering at fragments of memories. What had happened? My phone is filled with late night calls to any writers I could think of and though the conversations are forgotten their urgent message snaps back to the forefront of my mind:
A pipeline is coming to Florida and it stands a damn good chance of killing all of us.
This was the strong, overriding assertion riding a memory smashed by drink, but how had I come to it? I reached for a notebook stained brown with liquor and went over the events of the day as I’d lived them, hoping to find some purpose behind this dreadful feeling.
The day began unusually. I had been notified by an accomplice of mine that a group of activists were gathering to discuss something called “The Sable Trail…
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