Broken Cliff. A small town on the Pacific coast. Nobody knew me there.

For some reason, this seemed faintly ominous.

Maybe that just made it all the more perfect.

Now a small cottage near the woods. It was the last home from the end of the street, on the outskirts of town. Somebody had named it Ragnarok.

Sometimes, though, in the very early morning or the very late evening, out of the corner of my eye (whisky seems to help, too) it seemed to say Dreamtime or Armageddon.

Odd sort of name for a cottage anyway, I thought.

I parked my car and sat inside, the smoke from my cigarette mushrooming against the windshield.

Later, I opened the trunk and rummaged, eventually finding a framed photo. I stared at it, and then carried it the edge of the woods.

I picked a tree at random, silvery in the moonlight. I dug a whole in its roots, and buried the photo.

I sat in the dewy grass, and smoked my cigarettes until dawn.