Tuesday, June the 22nd, 2004
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“He was in some kind of a conveyance. He didn't know what it was. An automobile, a carriage, a train? He didn't know. He only understood that it went swiftly, swaying from side to side through a sable pit. Whenever his mind moved at all it came back to that sensation of a black pit in which he remained suspended, swinging from side to side, trying to struggle up against impossible odds. Once or twice words flashed like fire through the pit: “Tyrant!—Fool to go.” From a long immersion deeper in the pit he struggled frantically. He must get out. Somehow he must find wings.” — Wadsworth Camp, The Abandoned Room