I realized the moment I fell into the fissure that the book would not be destroyed as I had planned. It continued falling into that starry expanse of which I had only a fleeting glimpse. I tried to speculate where it might have landed. I must admit, however, such congecture is futile. Still, the question of anonymous hands might one day hold my Myst book are unsettling to be. I know my apprehensions might never be allayed, and so I close, realizing that perhaps the ending had not yet been written.

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Frameless