I once knew a madman who thought the end of the world had come. He was a painter—and engraver. I had a great fondness for him. I used to go and see him, in the asylum. I'd take him by the hand and drag him to the window. Look! There! All that rising corn! And there! Look! The sails of the herring fleet! All that loveliness!
He'd snatch away his hand and go back into his corner. Appalled. All he had seen was ashes.
He alone had been spared.
Forgotten. 
Endgame
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