All things must come to pass. The good, the bad, the aesthetically challenged. Speaking of unsightly, better days seen for what lies before me. Septic, pneumonitic, anemic, a poet who didn’t even know it. My father was always a cinephile of classic horror over the old spaghetti western. Perhaps comfort in the thought that nightmares couldn’t be all that far from familiar. A second opinion? I’m still awaiting the first, and at this point I’d fair better chances obtaining my own physician’s degree before I am given one.

May I suggest for a moment, that lacking the will to live could very well be a facade. The artistry it would avail for executing such a perfect con would be astonishing. But what does your science say? Any clues to the human condition and its continuance, even within the most withered frail states?

Discovery may lead you to the innermost workings of a gentle man, one whom overflows with all sorts of possibility and surprises.

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