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August 1, 2005

The Eschatologist: Witness

I can't help coming back to this spot.

There's a boat ramp a quarter mile down - I can see it from here. The water gently laps at the shore, and that old oak with the frayed rope that was so great for swinging still hangs a good thirty feet out over the inlet.

It's quiet here this late into the year, the winter months piling up. No one will come around, not until spring anyway.

That must have been what made it so perfect, I think, as I stare through the icy water down at my tethered lifeless body.

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