The beloved companions have been abandoned for the cold favors of a jet and the mocking scrutiny of a customs agent. And some mysterious ampoules, occasionally accompanied by repetitive instructional literature, various puzzling sundries as a cold pack and a date book... Why? Is this thought to improve the circumstances of the condition? What, no minty alarm clock?
But I know they only mean the best. They're no better prepared than I am. All they can offer is a vague suggestion (a phrase echoing of clinical exaltation) of a refrain from exacerbation.
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Bluck. Go fuck yourself, Dr. Jack Llewellyn. I'm sure Althusser will see you in hell.