When one hates all around him, and hates his life, but hates also the craven out of hanging himself, or fellating the shotgun barrel as some do, there comes the choice either of consuming oneself in hate as a dying star does with its own corpulence, or of finding a path out of the ambages constructed by one’s own malice.
There is all-consuming sleep almost always. The little death, from which recovery is inevitable and regular. Why, with such an opportunity, would anyone opt for the big?
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