The Danish Prince asked a question many years ago, and though time has slightly worn away man's ability to understand his syntax and vocabulary, there is no man in history who has not—at least once—asked the same question. His words are piercing, yet bring relief in their clarity. What man has not felt that all is turned against him, that, indeed, he is set upon by slings and arrows of outrageous fortune? When life pulls the rug from beneath your feet, stabs you in the back and laughs darkly, the mind reels pitifully to make sense from the madness all around. Outrageous fortune, it's the only way to say it—outrageous, outrageous, that everything falls apart so perfectly.

What more has life to offer, than heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to? Shock after shock, and there is no time to recover. I grow feeble from it all, and sit quietly in my bed, knees drawn up to make a table for the foolscap. I write with a faltering hand, my strength has been drained. I write in fear and exhaustion, I do not know what the next day, hour, or moment shall bring.

Perhaps I am only overtired. Perhaps it was only that I saw three patients buried last week.

Perhaps I should get some sleep.