There I was, late last night, lost and dripping with confusion over the fields of disillusionment. I was miserable, dear reader, because in the wandering of the great desert-snows that is this existence, I had yet to find confirmation of any great Truth, for the seeking of that one final question: “What doth life?”

But it so happened that I happened to happen upon a figure hobbling its way through the mists and the fogs upon Wilbur field, that vast plain of glassy-assed grass. He was no simple figure, but decrepit old man, limping, blind, and without a single spot of color on his skin—an albinus! Surely this could be no accident, surely no such person could be manifestly a mere mortal—he was surely no simple man, but surely an image of greatness, an ideal—an allegory! I ascertained the importance of such an opportunity, so pregnant with potent meaning.

“Old man!” I shouted, leaping up from the bush where I had crouched. He screamed and fell over backwards— metaphorically fascinating. “Tell me the Truth of what I seek, old man! What doth life?”

At this point he was lying on his back, lashing out in all directions with the cane he carried—a splendid display of panicked dexterity,  allegorical to an epileptic starfish. I was quick to jot down the particular pattern of his shouts for help and taps of cane against tree or ground, lest he’d decided to obfuscate the Truth within the rhythm of those sounds. At last, the wise albinus seized his seizing – and finally I could clearly see his death for what it was: an allegory for death.

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