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     I should somehow still be alive, knowing the once unspoken secret; I could have been a standing example, a moral model for others, and knowing that I had not worked in my idle hours to create so many cultural footprints: I wanted to be the decisive witness, the messenger of my Korom, my cherished, embellished message! The last of the atomic age's offspring to emerge from our Cold War atmosphere. Perhaps my bones will one day, many centuries after my death, speak in the depths of scientific phalanx laboratories, and speak: whispering secrets to the ears of the hearing! 

    Man especially, if he be wise and understanding, may understand: the options are valid only in the light of the context! What troubles once inhabited the secret, twisting labyrinths of my skull and brain? How I breathed the ivory truths of cultures as one, and then my preserved manuscripts tell me: my rings of years, in spiralling, serpentine circles, collapsed on each other: the last witnesses of my vulnerability. I could find little more than a few possibilities in the bending of the table: 'We'll let you know in three months', was the insidious reply: 'All was but a promise, a pretense clinging to a split hair! 

    This world of today, perhaps even in its own numbness, chasing after a rushing sensation, must be looked upon as one who, like wise and wise Sisyphus, knowing that he can never catch up, watches and observes the complex and uneven flow of things! Now I begin to know myself: from the beginning I should have searched deep and secretly within myself, with the stubborn unforgiveness of my self-pity, to find the Strength, the Encouragement, and the Self-confidence!

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