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In the Spring of 1988, by arrangement I met a beautiful woman whose interests lay in the design of destiny, miracles, and me—an average looking man, whose naiveté had been savaged while working in television news, in places like San Salvador and Beirut. Given our divergent views on the nature of our world, this meeting was a predictably bizarre exchange of explanatory experiences, during which Bonnie dangled mystical intrigues from her novel-in-progress to secure my help adapting it for the screen. Between her clear interest in my personal exploits, and my figurative drooling over her in general, it was strange that she was reluctant to reveal her full plot to me: in spite of my persistent prodding, by evening’s end I knew little more than her story involved a rescue mission of such massive proportion and intricate design that rescuers had to be stealthily recruited and indoctrinated to its methods, before they were even told what they were up against. Without this preparation, she apologetically explained, the quest would sound like pure fantasy. And there was one other mystifying caveat; volunteers weren’t welcome. In spite of these restrictive conditions, Bonnie also managed to flirtatiously cajole me into role-playing a trainee’s development, to fulfil what she described as a critical element that was missing in her story. I blithely assumed this was because I was articulately jaded, and she recognized that her work needed a grim counterpoint to some of her Disney-like views.
I also reasoned that a romance between us was no less absurd an idea than the esoteric premises she already embraced, and I blatantly pursued her affections, while we discussed supernatural precepts she had cleverly woven throughout her story, while she kept me at bay like a bemused fox playing with a myopic rabbit. The friction this circumstance generated was not quite reason enough to quit, until she made a claim too ridiculous to contemplate, even in jest. Bonnie claimed she had been contacted by an ancient teaching Spirit, who told her that this was the time of the Second Coming, being both a misnomer and not the end of the world. It was the end of the  “world cycle” in which we were now repeating historical lessons unlearned. We were on the cusp of a universal intervention in our ways, and our return to sanity would begin by awakening masterful emissaries to their purpose. Realizing I had been chasing a brilliant lunatic, and I decided to cut my losses. Then while gathering the courage to abandon her otherwise delightful companionship and our challenging discussions, I had many consecutive unusual experiences. Ultimately, I demanded and received a miracle as proof of Spirit’s existence.

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