Fiction | September 01, 1996

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This is a bit of a puzzle, really.  A certain thrashing about overhead.  Swimmers with nowhere to go, I fear, though I don’t recognize this body of water.  I’ve grown quite used to this existence I now have.  I’m fully conscious that I’m dead.  And yet not so, somehow.  I drift and drift, and I am that in which I drift, though what that is now, precisely, is unclear to me.

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