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UntitledIn that year, Charles Journal, if that was his name, and he wasn't sure, had taken to going to a park, not the same one every time, and willing himself out of himself, and a long way off. It was surprisingly easy to do, and better, as an oblivion-producer, than alcohol or pot, except that it was harder to come back than to go. He knew why. He had walked a couple of sleeping-pill cases in his time. They fought coming back, they hated it. Oblivion is heaven, after all, it is the only heave...