#97 Ink on Wood

I’ve been on this island for two hundred and twenty days now. I’ve counted the days by marking them on a piece of flat bark I stripped from a tree.

I’ve tried writing notes on similar pieces of bark and casting them in the ocean. But what good will that ever do?

This pen won’t last forever. I was just lucky I had when I fell overboard. Now I sit here, etching this brief final missive on this piece of bark. The red ink staining and marking the wood.

I have nothing left that I really want to say.

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