Zero seven hundred.
Adrenaline burns off, leaving only the weight of exhaustion.
My glove smells like wet coyote yesterday.
The tires chew gravel, dragging me back toward home—though there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Time collapsed, hours bled into minutes, all framed through the lens of the AGM Rattler V3 LRF 50-640.
Adrenaline burns off, leaving only the weight of exhaustion.
My glove smells like wet coyote yesterday.
The tires chew gravel, dragging me back toward home—though there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Time collapsed, hours bled into minutes, all framed through the lens of the AGM Rattler V3 LRF 50-640.