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Driftwood

I walk alone in twilight, wrapping ragged cloak against numbing wind, shivering as the wan rays of dying sun play feebly over the ocean; its caps ruby
and golden, then dark and chill as they fall into the sands, sweeping hoary ice and driftwood about my feet... A lingering cry as mists close in; the gull wings out of greyness to disappear as the sun, into the west... But I, I cannot follow into the warmth, I must remain and await the end of night, the eternal night to come... November 4, 1971

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