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Thursday, April 8

The rocks, the cement, the darkness. I remember. I remember.

I have dreamt of this pier before. I have swum in its wintry water, the foam of its frigid waves washing over my body, sticking to my skin. I have looked at the grey, lifeless sky, my body slowly floating up from the murky depths of the lake, the sand falling from my fingertips, my hair swimming in my eyes. I have squinted my eyes until the horizon melted away, the divide between earth and sky evaporating, as I fell into the clouds, my body forever sailing up, up, up. I have dreamt of this pier. I have lived there. I have died there. But I don't think I have ever actually been there.

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