The New Purgatory


It was liver spot roll call time. There were some new faces.

As he lay dying in a hospice, Seymour Franklin, was in a serious predicament. The lobe in his brain that catered to his communication skills fried out during the last stroke, his third, if you are counting. He could hear. He could smell. He could comprehend. But he could not move, nor speak. It sucked to be him.

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