That there planet's what I called home for twenty-seven years. My old homestead's grasslands... Not to boast, but lyin' there was heaven on earth.
[ he's looking at the ground ahead, but it's clear that boothill is someplace else for a time. ]
Not even the top-notch steer in camp could match that grass for comfort. And that creek—clean as a whistle, I tell ya. Them little fish in it looked like they were just floatin' in the air, no foolin'. Come nightfall, you'd plop down in the grasslands, find yerself a rock, face the breeze and strum a guitar or wail on a harmonica. That's the slice a' paradise, crisp and sweet.
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That there planet's what I called home for twenty-seven years. My old homestead's grasslands... Not to boast, but lyin' there was heaven on earth.
[ he's looking at the ground ahead, but it's clear that boothill is someplace else for a time. ]
Not even the top-notch steer in camp could match that grass for comfort. And that creek—clean as a whistle, I tell ya. Them little fish in it looked like they were just floatin' in the air, no foolin'. Come nightfall, you'd plop down in the grasslands, find yerself a rock, face the breeze and strum a guitar or wail on a harmonica. That's the slice a' paradise, crisp and sweet.