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B-but Sib, the deal is; everyone has to die, sooner or later.
Everyone, that is, except me.
But really, what's the point of pissing away (literally, towards the end, I fear) the money in a secure facility for the Old Folks at your own expense, and, more importantly, at the expense of whoever you're going to leave whatever cash you've managed to get together to. Being in a cancer ward seems preferable - you wouldn't be this sort of ... not to spell this out, but basically, a senile lunatic draining your children's resources in ths or that horror facility that the English government doesn't pay for.
Every breath you'd draw, as an older person, would be a waste of everyone's time, and also money, especially if towards the end one, as an older person, began to lose one's mind.
By all means, though, Sib, carry on with what seems to be your basic premise about death; i.e. that it's curable.
The solution, and I should know, lies somewhere hidden beneath those graveyards under Charlotte Square - emerging from there I was terribly pale, covered in weeds and insanity, and arguably, no longer worth listening to, until I was.
'Christ'' they said 'Fucking hell1'
I didn't tell them that I was there on behalf of Churchill until quite a lot later. |
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