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At the brink of nameless cliffs he stands: a statue
in travertine, pale as the clouds above. He can see no colors of
life, not the scarlet slashes of his own tattoos, not the putrefying
shreds of his wrists where chains were ripped from his flesh. His
eyes are as black as the storm- churned Aegean below, set in a
face whiter than the foam that boils among the jagged rocks.
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