Disclaimer: This story is my own answers to the essay questions presented
in Neil Gaiman's "Endless Nights" These questions were found in the 13th
portrait in the Despair chapter. The questions and the character Destiny
(who shall be called "The Inquisitor") do not belong to me and I am making
no money out of their use. Please read and review.
Regarding the Law of Conservation of Happiness
"Everyone please get out your pens," whispers a tall man dressed in a brown cassock with the cowl shrouding his face. The only visible part of his appearance is an indifferent mouth etched upon a visage, which has not changed since the beginning of time. He looks slightly ominous and foreboding, the type of man who could make you fail this very important examination and wouldn't care if you did.
A large brown book with iron hinges, more massive in content than universes or life itself, is bound to his wrist with large rusted, iron manacles (his burden). He stands behind an ebony podium, decorated with only a small oil lap, which emanates the heat of all the suns in infinity that time has since extinguished. The class of every being in the universe (of living and of dead) takes out their quills from the nothingness in the void at the end of everything. Some quills are an iridescent white, shining and glittering with the brilliance and magnificence of the morning star. They are soft yet strong, the most perfect feathers, as if they had been plucked from Lucifer's wings just prior to the fall. Other feathers are the black of ravens' wings, making the nothingness seem light and many are speckled like pheasants' or peacocks'. And a couple rare plumes found by a select few came from a phoenix tail and glowed vermilion except for the edges, which were singed black. However, no matter whom the person or pen, each holds the feather carefully poised over the blank pieces of antique cracked and yellow parchment.
Our inquisitor turns to the last page in his dusty brown tome, which rests atop the podium. As he does this, the cobwebs break from the cover and his shackles clatter and echo in the solitude of the void. The pages flutter with a mystical will of their own and sigh heavily as the musty smell of ancient scrolls and the Library of Alexandria makes their noses quiver. When the pages rustle, they tell the story of a thousand ages past and every examinee can feel the universe unfold chronologically before them. They can feel in their heart and soul, Lucifer's fall from grace along with the precise meaning and pattern of a zebra's stripes. The book whispers the secrets that the wind speaks when no one is listening and the exact sound made by the autumn leaves when stepped upon. The truth of the book was so strong that that audience can almost see the construction of atoms and the movement of galaxies. For, indeed, they are all written in his book.
In the book is written the first words spoken in a tongue long forgotten by mortal men; a tongue used when gods still walked the earth in skins of men. The book describes, in great detail, the hopes of a single snowflake and his dream of finding one who is exactly like him, along with the faerie stories told my distant stars to their planets before they awaken.
Each and every one of them knows in their heart of hearts that the book contains every detail of their lives, of every life. It has ever element regarding everyone you've ever met, everyone you've ever heard of and everyone you've never heard of. It contains the things that have happened to you, the things yet to come, the things you've forgotten and the things you don't believe. And as this happens, the paths of your life branch and diverge and recombine so that you only see one path stretching out behind you, and ahead see only darkness. With this, every member of the audience can feel their heart pounding in his or her chest because they know that this book holds all the answers to the mysteries of life, death, and everything that lies beyond those plains. The knowledge was an orgasmic rush that filled them, comforted them, bridges them across the abyss of forever and made them feel utterly safe and complete.
But then our inquisitor's tentative fingers caress the restless pages and they are still once more, making the book's truth from seconds earlier seem nothing but a dream or memory from a past life. And everyone suddenly shivers from a chill that does not come from the temperature. But it is unexpectedly much colder in the void. His or her skin prickles with the feeling of hopelessness and the chill one receives in the witching hour when everyone is asleep. They feel the darkness that they cannot hear or see close in around them, choking, smothering them, until they can no longer breath. And for the first time, each and every one of them knows true fear. But in the distance there is a glimmer of hope that they cannot see, and this calms everyone enough to sit back in their large cushions holding clipboards, quills, and waiting for instructions.
When the dust finally settles and falls to a floor that is no longer there, our inquisitor speaks again. His voice is still a whisper but it is audible, clear, definite and commanding. "You have a lifetime to complete this test," he says. "Use your time wisely."
"He's reading what he's saying," whispers a small child. She speaks with a lisp and the blunt honesty that only children can possess. She says as she sucks her thumb, "He's reading the words he's saying from that big dusty book. I don't think he's a very good public speaker."
"You're correct," he answers, still reading from his book. " I am indeed unaccustomed to speaking in public. But you are not here to converse, and already your time for this test grows short."
His fingers delicately trace each letter on the page with the individual care and attention each deserves. 'His skin is the same color as the pages,' they notice, as his hands move over the words. He looks up at everyone for the first time, unintentionally revealing the remainder of his face. 'His eyes,' they notice, 'are pupil-less and milky blue in color. He's blind,' they think to themselves. 'He's blind but it seems as if he can do nothing but see.'
He turns over a large hourglass with gold filigree and momentarily watches the finely ground obsidian sand flow into the bottom glass bulb. The filigree weaves the stories of forever and the crystal clear glass bulbs are foggy with a thin layer of dust. He remembers the last time he had to use this hourglass, at the end of the last universe, when the book was finally complete and a new one written, to be chained to his wrist once again. He remembers this as he wipes the dust from the glass using the cuff of his robes. Everyone realizes that he is wasting their time but he doesn't care and they don't wish to incur whatever wrath lies behind his eyes.
A page is slowly torn from his dusty volume and the crowd gasps in pain, almost as if they are part of the book, as if they can feel its pain. The tattered yellow parchment that was the last page is then tacked to the emptiness using the last remaining stars. They see that although he is blind, the letters are not brail but an Old English calligraphy the color of rust. 'What ink was used?' they wonder upon seeing the strange color and smudges of the faded letters. But that thought suddenly escapes their mind as they see that the paper reads the previous conversation and the essay questions for the test.
One member of the audience asks where there was ink and what they should use to write with if there was none readily available. As this is said, the inquisitor's sleeve ruffles and on his hands, wrists, and forearms is seen a netting of scars. And explanation was not given nor was it necessary. The realization dawned upon then, 'It's blood. The book is written I the blood of the gods.' Then the eerie thought crossed their mind for only a moment, 'Or, perhaps, being older than gods.' There was a knowledge shared among then and they instinctively knew that this man was older than gods or universes or time. But none of these seemed to matter as every examinee drew their own ink from their arms, wrists, hands and legs. Many winced as the metal tip of the quill grazed his or her skin and some relished in the pain. But everyone scratched the scarlet ink onto the parchment and unintentionally told the story of his or her life.
I'm sitting in the first row, dressed in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. I'm not exactly certain how I got her. But I know that this is where I'm supposed to be, where we're all supposed to be. I begin writing, frantically, somehow knowing that I lifetime isn't nearly long enough. The raven's feather quill is dipped into the small pool of crimson growing in the palm of my left hand. Question A reads: "If you can't be happy where you are, you can't be happy anywhere. Describe with examples from your own life."
I answer simply, "If you are not happy where you are, you cannot be happy anywhere because anywhere will eventually become where you are currently. When you leave where you are, you ultimately make the somewhere else' you have always hoped for, the 'here and now' that you always have to live with. Therefore, the 'anywhere' you are seeking is unattainable and the only place one can ever be is here. To use an example from my own life, I thought about killing myself many times. I wasn't happy where I was in my life but when I was about to change everything, I realized that I didn't feel any different: that things weren't going to be made better because of it." I pause for a moment, refilling my quill with fresh ink drawn from my forearm and wondering how I am going to word the rest of my response. "Things didn't change. Life didn't improve nor did it worsen. It just kind of, came to a stand still. So, in trying to change my situation, I became more depressed because my expectations were not fulfilled. Because of this, I was never happy no matter where I went with my life. If I had been happy where I was, then things might have unfolded differently."
'A good enough ending as anything,' I think to myself as I reread my answer. It is definitely not the best of anything I have ever written (in essay or otherwise). But, of course, I have time to go back and change my mistakes (if there was leftover time at the end of this lifetime). The black sand is slowly falling into the glass bulb and time seems to pass quickly since a fifth of the sand has already disappeared. I taste the ink as I contemplate the question B, which reads: "Hell is other people. Do you agree? Demonstrate how this might not be true in the case of: 1) The Armenian Massacre of 1915. 2) Either the life of Algernon Charles Swinburne or the death of Walt Disney. 3) The darkness before creation. (Answer 2 of 3)."
I refill my quill and answer the first part of the question. "Hell is not other people nor is it an actual place as stated by Western religious philosophy. All Hell is self-imposed according to my personal beliefs. And, though I realize that my reasoning may not hold water, I feel that to be the most reasonable explanation. Since Hell is self-imposed, it either does not exist (for those who do not condemn themselves) or it exists but only as a state of mind (for those who feel they have done wrong)."
I see that this is the easy part of my essay and try to recall any previous history lessons buried in the dark recesses of my mind. I never learned about the Armenian Massacre and had forgotten most that I knew about Walt Disney after the nostalgic days of my childhood had past. So, I began as best I cold. "B2) Such ideas are clearly reflected in the life of Algernon Charles Swinburne, a Victorian writer greatly influenced by the works of the Marquis de Sade. Swinburne was raised in a highly religious family and was believed by many to be homosexual and have tendencies towards masochism (with primary affiliation to flagellation) and bestiality. Many times during his life, he drank himself into a state of unconsciousness or near death, which was heightened by health problems he had had most of his life. Hell, for him, could not have been other people. If he did put himself through hell with his drinking and masochism, it was his belief that he deserved such punishment. Masochists do those things to themselves because that is what they enjoy, or, what they feel they deserve. Therefore, he could only have done this to himself if he had enjoyed such punishment (which would not have been Hell by any stretch of the imagination). Or, if he had felt that this or the drinking was his punishment, then such would have been self-imposed."
I read over this. I could have definitely done better but I have forgotten most of what I knew about Swinburne or the Marquis de Sade. However, I could always revise it later, so I moved on the next part of the question: "B3) Obviously there could not have been Hell in the darkness before creation. If you adhere to religious doctrine, then there was no Hell before the fall of Lucifer anyway. However, if it was only darkness, only void, then there would be no one or nothing to define and constitute what Hell was."
'A short answer but probably the best I have written,' I realize as I discover my supply of ink has desiccated and I carefully scratch the brittle black surface off using the tip of my feather.
The next question was one I read multiple times before it finally registered, "Construct an analogy using the saline nature of either tears or the sea and the salt that makes a dish palatable and adds piquancy and savor. (Examinees are encouraged to refer to either the 3rd daughter of Llyr or Lot's wife but not both."
I curse myself silently for not remembering my Celtic mythology but I do know the basic story of Sodom and Gomorra. "Salt is to dinner as tears are to life," I begin my analogy. "Salt is used to add flavor and seasoning to a dish in order to make it more appetizing, just as tears and sorrow are added to one's life." I taste the ink at the tip of my pen, remembering all my past sorrows and regrets as I do so. "If one's life does not have the saline nature of tears added, then it becomes dull and monotonous just as one's dinner would be uneatable without a hint of salt. Sorrow adds variety and flavors to one's life thereby making it taste better.
"Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt when she disobeyed the orders of God and looked back upon Sodom as it burned. Sodom and Gomorra were the salt in their lives, the sins that gave the dish flavor and made it palatable. Without such sins and such regrets, their lives would have been devoid of sustenance. Therefore, Lot's wife may have been changed into a pillar of salt in order to replace such flavor lost."
I smile as I read over this, knowing that this isn't the correct answer but being pleased with it nonetheless. I look over my final question and hurriedly scribble an answer when I see that the black sand has all but disappeared. The question reads: " 'I I was God, I would abolish.' Complete in 250 words or less. Physical practicalities and human nature are to be respected. The law of Conservation of Happiness may not be violated. (Counts for 50% of final score)."
"If I was God," I begin, knowing this is the easiest question, "and conservation of happiness must be respected (meaning that happiness cannot be created or destroyed), I would abolish happiness itself. The only way one can change life without changing the amount of happiness concerned is to make sure there is no happiness to begin with. The problem whether this is practical based on the restrictions of human nature is nullified since humans are naturally cynical anyway. Murphy's Law defines human beings as a species, so the loss of happiness would be no shock or surprise to anyone concerned. Physical practicalities would be respected because we would not be changing anything, only heightening what was already there. If I were to create would peace or make people happy, then that would be a physical impossibility. But all I would be doing is embellishing what is already there. Therefore, the only way I can observe these set rules yet abolish something with the power of omnipotence is to abolish happiness."
162 words I notice as I count them a second time. Short but sweet. There are only a few grains of sand left in the hourglass. Everyone is scrambling frantically in order to finish their tests, but I just sit there waiting for my time to run out and the test to be collected at the end of everything.
The End
Well? What did you think? Please R&R
Regarding the Law of Conservation of Happiness
"Everyone please get out your pens," whispers a tall man dressed in a brown cassock with the cowl shrouding his face. The only visible part of his appearance is an indifferent mouth etched upon a visage, which has not changed since the beginning of time. He looks slightly ominous and foreboding, the type of man who could make you fail this very important examination and wouldn't care if you did.
A large brown book with iron hinges, more massive in content than universes or life itself, is bound to his wrist with large rusted, iron manacles (his burden). He stands behind an ebony podium, decorated with only a small oil lap, which emanates the heat of all the suns in infinity that time has since extinguished. The class of every being in the universe (of living and of dead) takes out their quills from the nothingness in the void at the end of everything. Some quills are an iridescent white, shining and glittering with the brilliance and magnificence of the morning star. They are soft yet strong, the most perfect feathers, as if they had been plucked from Lucifer's wings just prior to the fall. Other feathers are the black of ravens' wings, making the nothingness seem light and many are speckled like pheasants' or peacocks'. And a couple rare plumes found by a select few came from a phoenix tail and glowed vermilion except for the edges, which were singed black. However, no matter whom the person or pen, each holds the feather carefully poised over the blank pieces of antique cracked and yellow parchment.
Our inquisitor turns to the last page in his dusty brown tome, which rests atop the podium. As he does this, the cobwebs break from the cover and his shackles clatter and echo in the solitude of the void. The pages flutter with a mystical will of their own and sigh heavily as the musty smell of ancient scrolls and the Library of Alexandria makes their noses quiver. When the pages rustle, they tell the story of a thousand ages past and every examinee can feel the universe unfold chronologically before them. They can feel in their heart and soul, Lucifer's fall from grace along with the precise meaning and pattern of a zebra's stripes. The book whispers the secrets that the wind speaks when no one is listening and the exact sound made by the autumn leaves when stepped upon. The truth of the book was so strong that that audience can almost see the construction of atoms and the movement of galaxies. For, indeed, they are all written in his book.
In the book is written the first words spoken in a tongue long forgotten by mortal men; a tongue used when gods still walked the earth in skins of men. The book describes, in great detail, the hopes of a single snowflake and his dream of finding one who is exactly like him, along with the faerie stories told my distant stars to their planets before they awaken.
Each and every one of them knows in their heart of hearts that the book contains every detail of their lives, of every life. It has ever element regarding everyone you've ever met, everyone you've ever heard of and everyone you've never heard of. It contains the things that have happened to you, the things yet to come, the things you've forgotten and the things you don't believe. And as this happens, the paths of your life branch and diverge and recombine so that you only see one path stretching out behind you, and ahead see only darkness. With this, every member of the audience can feel their heart pounding in his or her chest because they know that this book holds all the answers to the mysteries of life, death, and everything that lies beyond those plains. The knowledge was an orgasmic rush that filled them, comforted them, bridges them across the abyss of forever and made them feel utterly safe and complete.
But then our inquisitor's tentative fingers caress the restless pages and they are still once more, making the book's truth from seconds earlier seem nothing but a dream or memory from a past life. And everyone suddenly shivers from a chill that does not come from the temperature. But it is unexpectedly much colder in the void. His or her skin prickles with the feeling of hopelessness and the chill one receives in the witching hour when everyone is asleep. They feel the darkness that they cannot hear or see close in around them, choking, smothering them, until they can no longer breath. And for the first time, each and every one of them knows true fear. But in the distance there is a glimmer of hope that they cannot see, and this calms everyone enough to sit back in their large cushions holding clipboards, quills, and waiting for instructions.
When the dust finally settles and falls to a floor that is no longer there, our inquisitor speaks again. His voice is still a whisper but it is audible, clear, definite and commanding. "You have a lifetime to complete this test," he says. "Use your time wisely."
"He's reading what he's saying," whispers a small child. She speaks with a lisp and the blunt honesty that only children can possess. She says as she sucks her thumb, "He's reading the words he's saying from that big dusty book. I don't think he's a very good public speaker."
"You're correct," he answers, still reading from his book. " I am indeed unaccustomed to speaking in public. But you are not here to converse, and already your time for this test grows short."
His fingers delicately trace each letter on the page with the individual care and attention each deserves. 'His skin is the same color as the pages,' they notice, as his hands move over the words. He looks up at everyone for the first time, unintentionally revealing the remainder of his face. 'His eyes,' they notice, 'are pupil-less and milky blue in color. He's blind,' they think to themselves. 'He's blind but it seems as if he can do nothing but see.'
He turns over a large hourglass with gold filigree and momentarily watches the finely ground obsidian sand flow into the bottom glass bulb. The filigree weaves the stories of forever and the crystal clear glass bulbs are foggy with a thin layer of dust. He remembers the last time he had to use this hourglass, at the end of the last universe, when the book was finally complete and a new one written, to be chained to his wrist once again. He remembers this as he wipes the dust from the glass using the cuff of his robes. Everyone realizes that he is wasting their time but he doesn't care and they don't wish to incur whatever wrath lies behind his eyes.
A page is slowly torn from his dusty volume and the crowd gasps in pain, almost as if they are part of the book, as if they can feel its pain. The tattered yellow parchment that was the last page is then tacked to the emptiness using the last remaining stars. They see that although he is blind, the letters are not brail but an Old English calligraphy the color of rust. 'What ink was used?' they wonder upon seeing the strange color and smudges of the faded letters. But that thought suddenly escapes their mind as they see that the paper reads the previous conversation and the essay questions for the test.
One member of the audience asks where there was ink and what they should use to write with if there was none readily available. As this is said, the inquisitor's sleeve ruffles and on his hands, wrists, and forearms is seen a netting of scars. And explanation was not given nor was it necessary. The realization dawned upon then, 'It's blood. The book is written I the blood of the gods.' Then the eerie thought crossed their mind for only a moment, 'Or, perhaps, being older than gods.' There was a knowledge shared among then and they instinctively knew that this man was older than gods or universes or time. But none of these seemed to matter as every examinee drew their own ink from their arms, wrists, hands and legs. Many winced as the metal tip of the quill grazed his or her skin and some relished in the pain. But everyone scratched the scarlet ink onto the parchment and unintentionally told the story of his or her life.
I'm sitting in the first row, dressed in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. I'm not exactly certain how I got her. But I know that this is where I'm supposed to be, where we're all supposed to be. I begin writing, frantically, somehow knowing that I lifetime isn't nearly long enough. The raven's feather quill is dipped into the small pool of crimson growing in the palm of my left hand. Question A reads: "If you can't be happy where you are, you can't be happy anywhere. Describe with examples from your own life."
I answer simply, "If you are not happy where you are, you cannot be happy anywhere because anywhere will eventually become where you are currently. When you leave where you are, you ultimately make the somewhere else' you have always hoped for, the 'here and now' that you always have to live with. Therefore, the 'anywhere' you are seeking is unattainable and the only place one can ever be is here. To use an example from my own life, I thought about killing myself many times. I wasn't happy where I was in my life but when I was about to change everything, I realized that I didn't feel any different: that things weren't going to be made better because of it." I pause for a moment, refilling my quill with fresh ink drawn from my forearm and wondering how I am going to word the rest of my response. "Things didn't change. Life didn't improve nor did it worsen. It just kind of, came to a stand still. So, in trying to change my situation, I became more depressed because my expectations were not fulfilled. Because of this, I was never happy no matter where I went with my life. If I had been happy where I was, then things might have unfolded differently."
'A good enough ending as anything,' I think to myself as I reread my answer. It is definitely not the best of anything I have ever written (in essay or otherwise). But, of course, I have time to go back and change my mistakes (if there was leftover time at the end of this lifetime). The black sand is slowly falling into the glass bulb and time seems to pass quickly since a fifth of the sand has already disappeared. I taste the ink as I contemplate the question B, which reads: "Hell is other people. Do you agree? Demonstrate how this might not be true in the case of: 1) The Armenian Massacre of 1915. 2) Either the life of Algernon Charles Swinburne or the death of Walt Disney. 3) The darkness before creation. (Answer 2 of 3)."
I refill my quill and answer the first part of the question. "Hell is not other people nor is it an actual place as stated by Western religious philosophy. All Hell is self-imposed according to my personal beliefs. And, though I realize that my reasoning may not hold water, I feel that to be the most reasonable explanation. Since Hell is self-imposed, it either does not exist (for those who do not condemn themselves) or it exists but only as a state of mind (for those who feel they have done wrong)."
I see that this is the easy part of my essay and try to recall any previous history lessons buried in the dark recesses of my mind. I never learned about the Armenian Massacre and had forgotten most that I knew about Walt Disney after the nostalgic days of my childhood had past. So, I began as best I cold. "B2) Such ideas are clearly reflected in the life of Algernon Charles Swinburne, a Victorian writer greatly influenced by the works of the Marquis de Sade. Swinburne was raised in a highly religious family and was believed by many to be homosexual and have tendencies towards masochism (with primary affiliation to flagellation) and bestiality. Many times during his life, he drank himself into a state of unconsciousness or near death, which was heightened by health problems he had had most of his life. Hell, for him, could not have been other people. If he did put himself through hell with his drinking and masochism, it was his belief that he deserved such punishment. Masochists do those things to themselves because that is what they enjoy, or, what they feel they deserve. Therefore, he could only have done this to himself if he had enjoyed such punishment (which would not have been Hell by any stretch of the imagination). Or, if he had felt that this or the drinking was his punishment, then such would have been self-imposed."
I read over this. I could have definitely done better but I have forgotten most of what I knew about Swinburne or the Marquis de Sade. However, I could always revise it later, so I moved on the next part of the question: "B3) Obviously there could not have been Hell in the darkness before creation. If you adhere to religious doctrine, then there was no Hell before the fall of Lucifer anyway. However, if it was only darkness, only void, then there would be no one or nothing to define and constitute what Hell was."
'A short answer but probably the best I have written,' I realize as I discover my supply of ink has desiccated and I carefully scratch the brittle black surface off using the tip of my feather.
The next question was one I read multiple times before it finally registered, "Construct an analogy using the saline nature of either tears or the sea and the salt that makes a dish palatable and adds piquancy and savor. (Examinees are encouraged to refer to either the 3rd daughter of Llyr or Lot's wife but not both."
I curse myself silently for not remembering my Celtic mythology but I do know the basic story of Sodom and Gomorra. "Salt is to dinner as tears are to life," I begin my analogy. "Salt is used to add flavor and seasoning to a dish in order to make it more appetizing, just as tears and sorrow are added to one's life." I taste the ink at the tip of my pen, remembering all my past sorrows and regrets as I do so. "If one's life does not have the saline nature of tears added, then it becomes dull and monotonous just as one's dinner would be uneatable without a hint of salt. Sorrow adds variety and flavors to one's life thereby making it taste better.
"Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt when she disobeyed the orders of God and looked back upon Sodom as it burned. Sodom and Gomorra were the salt in their lives, the sins that gave the dish flavor and made it palatable. Without such sins and such regrets, their lives would have been devoid of sustenance. Therefore, Lot's wife may have been changed into a pillar of salt in order to replace such flavor lost."
I smile as I read over this, knowing that this isn't the correct answer but being pleased with it nonetheless. I look over my final question and hurriedly scribble an answer when I see that the black sand has all but disappeared. The question reads: " 'I I was God, I would abolish.' Complete in 250 words or less. Physical practicalities and human nature are to be respected. The law of Conservation of Happiness may not be violated. (Counts for 50% of final score)."
"If I was God," I begin, knowing this is the easiest question, "and conservation of happiness must be respected (meaning that happiness cannot be created or destroyed), I would abolish happiness itself. The only way one can change life without changing the amount of happiness concerned is to make sure there is no happiness to begin with. The problem whether this is practical based on the restrictions of human nature is nullified since humans are naturally cynical anyway. Murphy's Law defines human beings as a species, so the loss of happiness would be no shock or surprise to anyone concerned. Physical practicalities would be respected because we would not be changing anything, only heightening what was already there. If I were to create would peace or make people happy, then that would be a physical impossibility. But all I would be doing is embellishing what is already there. Therefore, the only way I can observe these set rules yet abolish something with the power of omnipotence is to abolish happiness."
162 words I notice as I count them a second time. Short but sweet. There are only a few grains of sand left in the hourglass. Everyone is scrambling frantically in order to finish their tests, but I just sit there waiting for my time to run out and the test to be collected at the end of everything.
The End
Well? What did you think? Please R&R