We have been meeting like this, boats anchored in the middle of the lake each evening, for so long now that few of us, if any, can remember exactly when it began.
But of course, that’s how it is with everything these days, isn’t it? Hard to remember when it really started. Difficult to imagine how it will end.
The lake bobs up and down below us like death, a softly rocking comfort for the most part.
All lakes are oceans, slumming, hiding their dark light under the bushel of the darkening sky.
Swords come from lakes, and swords return to them.
You can hide mysteries in a lake that the vastest ocean would never countenance.
Here’s the most important point to keep in mind: This lake is your lake. That much is true, completely, undeniably. But this lake is also everyone else’s, just as completely, and undeniably. Such is the nature of lakes. They’re all the same really, when it comes right down to it, especially at twilight, when the mist rises in curls from the virtually still surface.
Let me be quiet.
I think someone’s about to tell a story…
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