One somewhat diminished fellow described for me new heights to be scaled in living a life of little consequence when, as he put it, you could commit suicide in a place most public, in a manner most extreme, and the news accounts of your demise fail to mention the “cause of death.”
In a strictly revolutionist sense, even a blind man has two places to look.
Fuses by the dozen, fuses by the gross, such were the purchases by one awkward fellow who seemed to be forever “blowing them out” in minor household accidents. And then one day, his wife, wearing clear eyes and a cold voice, confronted him by saying, “Being as inept as you are in certain regards, I do believe that you purposefully cause these shorts just so you can replace the fuses and thus appear to have some talents as a handy-man.” And after three to seven seconds of being startled, the man pulled her close up, cupped his hand to her ear and said, “Okay, so you go me, but I’ve been carrying this on so as to teach my son an important lesson,” which was a little curious inasmuch as they were childless.
The closer you go to the end of the sentence, the more people begin to suffer, “period phobia.”
You can extend the essence of your existence by going faster, or going slower. (Maintaining present speed will be forbidden to those in-the-future.)