#1301

Do you know how often people disappear? How easy it is to snatch someone from their life and vanish them away forever? Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Gone. Gone. It’s so easy. Yet hope persists among those whose loved ones have been taken; a hope that somewhere these people still exist, that the world has not swallowed them whole but temporarily misplaced them and they may one day return to fill the ache of their absence. A false hope, this. Comforting and useless. The vanished loved ones are dead. Their bodies lay in ditches and dumpsters, at the bottoms of basements and lakes and ravines. Even if they live and by some miracle find their way home, the ones they were are dead. You do not return the same, if you return at all. You are still in your grave. You are always in your grave. Once you are stolen, you can never return. You are gone. Gone.

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