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THREE DAYS, UP A SWITCH-BACKING TRACK Silk strips on a teak gateway. Drifting gauzily with the wind. Inwards, at first. Then out. In again. And out. The breeze keeps shifting. Breathing. + In every fold of Dog Mountain there is a village, green with terraced rice. The farmers smile at you. They always harvest bumper crops. They all look a little thin, though. A little wan. And there are no animals…
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