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September 12, 2005

The Eschatologist: Running

I wake up sweating - it's impossible that I'm here again.

There's a rancid smell from the open window. I draw my first breath and it's overwhelming. Too new. A fit of coughing, and I pitch my head over the bed spilling bile, blood and preservative on the patchwork tile, where it ricochets back at me.

It feels good, clears my head of the sirens and the voices, a bitter symphony of hate.

The radio mumbles something in the background, before I can smash it, the door crashes in. Out the window, black feathered wings unfurled and carrying me upward.

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