In South Dakota, the land doesn’t rage or warn. It simply waits, patient and still, letting time and emptiness do its work. The ghost towns collapse quietly under the weight of their own forgetting, their windows staring blankly across the endless plains. In Deadwood, the saloons and graveyards breathe side by side, and the laughter of the dead sounds almost like the wind if you don’t listen too closely.
The Badlands stretch out like a broken ribcage, cracked open under a sky too wide to ever love you back. In the Black Hills, the earth carries the memory of betrayal, and Wounded Knee lies heavy beneath the soil, a scar the land chose never to heal. Out here, the cold isn’t just in the air — it’s in the stones, the dust, the bones of every dream left behind.
In South Dakota, the land doesn’t have to kill you. It just waits until you disappear — and then it forgets you were ever there.