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The journey to Malta would take almost four days.
Both men, with knapsacks and sleeping bags on their backs, stepped eagerly onto the train in Zürich. A whistle blew and they were off. In his knapsack, Grok had brought pictures of his family
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I began to imagine the shadows, so rectilinear, were arcing and flowing. I saw shoulders moving, the sinewy upper shoulders of wolves running in a pack. . .
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Then a flicker caught my eye. To the left of the balcony, where the residential high-rise abutted a commercial building to its right, a shape--half-dark, half-lit--stood on a limestone ledge.
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"I'm in a wrestling movie!" you shouted.
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Retire to Malta. Die on an island that crumbled like an oversized Ozymandias. Hang your shorts to dry from a balcony on the Mediterranean. There were worse ways to go out. He had his boots on. He never wrote. He said he saw the futility in it now. Each of
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