1884. That Year has so much in common with my faults. I’ve seen the same face fall Fifty Feet Under. I’ve watched my own drink fall into an abyss below me. I’ve always known my soul purpose and my daughter has always known my favorite time of Year. Pipelines staggering into the thick fog that falls upon the bright blue sky that once was there and not forgotten. The Grim Reaper is who I blame for whatever goes wrong here. I blame myself when another victim falls down. The World around me is dull, dark and all that I see are friendly faces (not quite) as real as I thought. Voices keep me up at night. Sounds keep me alone. The things I miss most are no longer here. 1884. Now, that is a Year that I recall the End Of Another Year.

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