This recitation of misfortune has left me unable to go on. I must pause to brood on the fragility of life, on our powerlessness in the face of great cosmic forces, and on the meaning of these untimely deaths, not one of which occurred precisely on the hour, on the half hour, or even on the quarter hour, but always at odd minutes.
Fortunately, a glass of fine sherry has appeared at my side as if by magic, offering me the consolation of its nutty flavor and alcoholic content. Although lacking any corroborating evidence, I am morally certain that the sherry placed on the table beside my armchair was put there by Mrs. Scuttlesby, whose sense of what is required at any given moment is so uncanny as to suggest divine omniscience, although serving sherry is not, as far as I am aware, any more a part of her job description than crocodile wrestling, at which she is also more than merely proficient.
Now I shall raise a sherry to toast the dear departed, brood deeply as we novelists are frequently wont to do, and continue with the story of Counted Sorrows once I have come to terms with all these losses and with the madness of existence.
Copyright Dean Koontz, 2001 - all rights reserved.
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