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May 26, 2005

The Eschatologist: Epitaph

I almost died that day, pulled down by tangles of river weed and turbulent currents that twisted and turned me until there was no direction. No up or down, just a sensation of everywhere all around me. I saw Jim then, looking just as we did when mom threw us out of the house in the dawn hours, and we would cause no end of mischief until the fireflies danced among the oaks in twilight. I heard mom's voice going hoarse, calling us indoors for the umpteenth time. A voice that faded with Jim's face into the black of night.

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