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Just after I'd finished writing in my journal and blown out my candles, this guy stumbled in drunk by the light of a zippo, and begged me for water. I told him I didn't have any and he slumped on the mattress with a mournful groan, pulled the filthy blanket over his face and feet like a shroud, and didn't move an inch all night. I lit a candle and pencilled in my journal, "I am spending tonight sheltering from a rainstorm in a sea cave with a passed out Sardinian hippie. All is going according to plan."
