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July 12, 2005

The Eschatologist: Marooned in G Minor

Foam and spray washed playfully around Simon's legs as he dangled his feet in the widening sea. The rock on which he sat wasn't terribly uncomfortable, but it left much to be desired.

"I'll have to speak to the concierge about this!" He laughed wryly at his own joke.

"How droll," said the sea. "So, go on, what were you saying?"

A seagull flew past and waved. Simon stirred the ruined tailpiece of his Stradivarius as it bobbed in the water like a beggar looking for a sonata. He sighed visibly, and the sea rose a bit to comfort him.

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