She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. “I have brought you very nearly to my door. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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