The edge of the cliff I laid down. By nights cloak I hid. With the full moon high away from strangers but not the wilderness danger and the winds that rolled by. I had a lucid dream of a force unseen, prodding and snarling, examining me.
When I looked up from my sleep sack, there was nothing there. both my fright and the breeze
had raised all my hair. I sat up then stood,
approaching the cliff. As the black cold waters
below were raging adrift. I held up a harmonica in the wind fascinated as it blew and drawn for
it played on its own accord. When all of a sudden it was playing an "old rag tyme" song. Then a force from behind me pushed me over the ledge.
I woke up heavy breathing six feet from death and uncertainty, away from the ominous depths beyond
that edge. I thought it was bizarre but shrugged away the thought. Fatigued, I dozed off to bed.
The next day I hitch hiked down the road to the next town ahead. Without mention the driver told me that spot was dubbed "suicide park." that explained the strange dream and eerie feelings I had sleeping there, alone in the dark. I wouldn't call it coincidence, but you be the judge. To me the truth is stranger than fiction, maybe that's what folklore was crafted from.