Death is a low chemical trick played on everybody except sequoia trees*

 

I've been on a train all day, going to visit an ailing friend—a probably dying friend—a friend who, just by the way, the world can't do without, let alone my private feelings on the matter.  I am not in a good mood.  Blood, spit and damnation, but this system sucks.  I want to speak to the management.**   The subordinate mortal bureaucracy is clearly run by idiots.

            I'm also frelling shattered.***  I give the ME credit:  it pretty well held off all day† and even more or less let...