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I never asked, though sometimes I have this image of him coming home to an empty apartment (and perhaps severely neglected cat), pouring himself a glass of scotch (neat), and raising it to his lips with shaking hands and a muttered "I can't do this anymore."
I'm kidding. I have no idea.
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"Fantasy, abandoned by reason, produces impossible monsters; united with it, she is the mother of the arts and the origin of their marvels." - Francisco de Goya
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