Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight
Where ignorant armies clash by night
The poet, Matthew Arnold, who wrote "Dover Beach", died at the age of 66. I have surpassed him by one year. He died of a heart attack while running to catch a street car. That kind of death is not in my plans. No heart attack for me; so, how shall I go? I hope I have a dignified death because it is possible that my dignity may suffer over the next decade or so. Like the last two lines of "Dover Beach", I am clashing with my enemy, PD, but, alas, my foe is winning at the moment. I have had to increase my dose of mirapex in order to hold the front line and calm the tremor in my right hand. I know I can't win the war, but the occasional victory in a battle would be much appreciated.
If there is anyone out there, some kind of genius, who can help me win the war, give me a call. I will be indebted.
Some of the time I fear I will not live long enough to see a cure and you, you sad genius, will not get your reward. At other times, I am convinced that I will see the day when PD is eradicated. Like everyone else, I will have a rendezvous with death, so get to work but keep in mind,"He that dies pays all debts" (W. Shakespeare).
That Shakespeare was one smart cookie.
There is a touch of irony there.
"Shakespeare"! Get it?
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