I’m on a bridge. It’s a suspension bridge of sorts. It’s narrow, with room for only one to pass. It’s rickety, dangerous, every step a calculated risk. And this might be the longest bridge ever built. I can’t see either end. Sometimes I fear I never will. I tread wearily along with downcast eyes, trying to make headway, but looking down is a bad idea. It’s a long way down, a very long way down. Beneath the bridge is a never-ending chasm. The mere sight of it chills my blood and weakens my resolve with every beat of my frigid heart. This is the Loneliness Chasm. Upon this bridge there is no hope. Most men go mad before reaching the other side, hurling themselves into the very chasm that drives them to such despair. There are a few legends, of men returning from the bridge, but they were never the same. They lived the rest of their years with frostbitten hearts, blackened by the icy tendrils of solitude reaching up from the depths of that chasm of the damned. The Loneliness Chasm.
I plod on.
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