As soon as he got out of the car, Martin felt uneasy, it wouldn’t be much of a problem if he wasn’t also lost and stinking. The only thing he remembered was that he doesn’t remember anything, except a bottle of whisky, which brought him to a certain thought: independently whether he would remember it or not, it certainly wasn’t a good thing to be remembered. But the memories strike hard, and there is the doctor telling Martin about his cancer, about how long he expects him to live, about nice things he should do, embroided in gentle and kind words, that just make everything worse. Eloquence in dreadful situations only shows how awful and appalling the situation is. And now we are back where we started, something must be done since consciousness noisily pounds back at the doors of reason, the answer in his mind is as quick as the hand's movement towards the pockets: buy another bottle of whisky, and hope to remember and do everything again next time he gets aware of this coward and doomed endless nowhere whirled situation.
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