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July 27, 2005

The Eschatologist: Dreams of a Lost World

The art deco spire of Empire State loomed in the distance, floating closer. The cloud deck was low and frustrating, but halogens on the mooring arm cut through the mist, paving a way to the tower. A quiet night air enhanced the chill.

The zeppelin slowed ponderously, and mooring lines were thrown onto the Number 1 ramp.

A sudden wind, unforeseen, split the fog into shards and caught the lazy zeppelin, slamming it against the building, halogens tearing through the canvas.

There are few sights described as terrifyingly beautiful. Watching helplessly as a flaming airship crashes is one of them.

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