Walking the dead shoreline helps me clear my mind, focus more deeply on my thoughts. Although it’s not like I haven’t been alone with my thoughts for long. Every day, the silence is only broken by my internal monologue. I can’t remember the last time I spoke to another person. Well, unless the guy I took that coat from the other day counts. I was polite, too. Introduced myself and everything. And yet, he just laid there, dust collecting in his sockets. He didn’t mind when I relieved him of his jacket. He must’ve been from the other side, judging by the feel of the fabric. They didn’t make anything like that over here.
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Burying the Past
I’ll tell you what it’s like.
The first moments drag like hours, as they’re dragged into the earth. Whether the cruelty of the Fates or the gears of your own perception grinding to a halt, the only thing you’re certain of is that the seconds no longer peel away. Each is another needle pricking your skin, reminding you of your mortality, reminding you of theirs.
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It is June 28, 1914. Exiting a delicatessen, Gavril Princip steps up to the Gräf & Stift car and fires upon Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie. The bullets strike the Archduke’s jugular vein and Sophie’s abdomen, although Princip was aiming for Oskar Potiorek instead of the duchess. He tries to turn the gun on himself, but is seized by Bosnian police. Sophie has bled out, her body sprawled along the leather seating. Ferdinand passes ten minutes later.
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