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  • At the edge of the world, nothing matters.

    Early morning on a stroll through the thick woods of Wicklow, Rithesh and I stumbled upon this open field at the mouth of a river. Thrilled at our discovery, we let ourselves imagine that this was our own little place. We ran barefoot, our arms spread wide, absorbing the chill of the dew drops. The crisp blades of grass tickled our toes. It has just rained the night before, and this place looked like it had been freshly laundered. Our skin was alive and breathing, tasting the air.
    In the middle of the filed was a fallen tree. Dry and thickened over the years. The bark was cool to the touch. We climbed onto its round, thick base. Smooth as a pebble, probably by the footsteps of other people like us who had perched themselves atop the tree over the years.

    Tired of our frolicking, we walked to the water to dip our feet.

    A weird sound rose up in the air.


    We drew closer to the river and saw a lone backpacker. Sharpening a knife on a large rock at the edge of the water.
    Our eyes met for a second. I smiled. He didn't smile.

    I took Rithesh's hand and we shuffled out of there quickly.

    At the edge of the world, living matters.
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