About 'ogilvie train station'|Station Issues Part 2: Fixing Chicago's Congestion Woes

About 'ogilvie train station'|Station Issues Part 2: Fixing Chicago's Congestion Woes

Ａ               ｇｕｎｍａｎ               ｃｌｏｓｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｒａｆｆｉｃ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｏｐｅｎｅｄ               ｆｉｒｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               38ｔｈ               ｆｌｏｏｒ               ｏｆ               Ｃｈｉｃａｇｏ'ｓ               Ｏｇｌｉｖｉｅ               Ｔｒａｎｓｐｏｒｔａｔｉｏｎ               Ｃｅｎｔｅｒ. Ａｔ               3:15               ＰＭ               ｏｎ               Ｄｅｃｅｍｂｅｒ               8,               2006,               ａｎ               ｕｎｉｄｅｎｔｉｆｉｅｄ               ｇｕｎｍａｎ               ｓｈｏｔ               ｆｏｕｒ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｌｏｏｒ               ｏｆ               ａ               Ｃｈｉｃａｇｏ               ｌａｗ               ｆｉｒｍ. Ｒｅｐｏｒｔｅｄｌｙ,               ｔｈｅ               ｇｕｎｍａｎ               ｅｎｔｅｒｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               38ｔｈ               ｆｌｏｏｒ,               ｓｐｏｋｅ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｍａｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｈｏｔ               ｈｉｍ. Ｔｈｒｅｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｈｏｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｎｃｉｄｅｎｔ. Ｔｈｅ               ｇｕｎｍａｎ               ｗａｓ               ｓｈｏｔ               ａｎｄ               ｋｉｌｌｅｄ,               ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｙ               ｃｏｍｍｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｓｕｉｃｉｄｅ. Ｔｈｅ               ｆｏｕｒ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｗｈｏ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｈｏｔ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｉｎ               ｃｒｉｔｉｃａｌ               ｃｏｎｄｉｔｉｏｎ. Ｉｄｅｎｔｉｔｉｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｖｉｃｔｉｍｓ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｕｎｍａｎ               ｈａｖｅ               ｎｏｔ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｒｅｌｅａｓｅｄ.                Ｔｈｅ               Ｏｇｉｌｖｉｅ               Ｂｕｉｌｄｉｎｇ               ｉｓ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               Ｎｏｒｔｈｗｅｓｔｅｒｎ               Ｍｅｔｒａ               Ｔｒａｉｎ               Ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｉｓ               ｌｏｃａｔｅｄ. Ｔｒａｉｎｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｎｏｔ               ｌｅａｖｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｗｈｉｌｅ,               ｂａｃｋｉｎｇ               ｕｐ               ｔｒａｆｆｉｃ               ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓｙ               Ｃｈｉｃａｇｏ               ｒｕｓｈ               ｈｏｕｒ. Ｔｒａｆｆｉｃ               ｉｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｂａｃｋｅｄ               ｕｐ,               ａｓ               ｃｏｍｍｕｔｅｒｓ               ａｒｅ               ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ａｌｔｅｒｎａｔｅ               ｍｅａｎｓ               ｔｏ               ｌｅａｖｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｉｔｙ,               ｉｎ               ｆｒｉｇｉｄ               ｔｅｍｐｅｒａｔｕｒｅｓ.                Ａ               ｂｒｉｅｆ               ｓｔａｔｅｍｅｎｔ               ｗａｓ               ｍａｄｅ               ｂｙ               ｃｉｔｙ               ｏｆｆｉｃｉａｌｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｎｏ               ｄｅｔａｉｌｓ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｒｅｌｅａｓｅｄ.

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Related blog with ogilvie train station

1. Pipe Bomb At Chicago Commuter Train Station

   occidentality.blogspot.com/   09/01/2006

   ... reported on train No. 638, which was traveling toward the Ogilvie Transportation Center in downtown...10 a.m. near the Dee Road Station, at 881 N. Dee Rd., ...

2. Metra Receives Federal Aid to Reduce Diesel Pollution In Its Trains

   rusustain.wordpress.com/   10/25/2011

   ...after a Chicago Tribune report that found high levels of diesel exhaust at Ogilvie train station and in some commuter rail cars. In a statement, U.S. Sen. Dick Durbin, D-Ill...

3. Station Issues Part 2: Fixing Chicago's Congestion Woes

   myrailmusings.blogspot.com/   04/20/2010

   ...trains a day since METRA commuter trains (and the bulk of its lines) also use the facility. Ogilvie Transportation Center (was North Western Station): The Madison Street facility currently...

4. Wet and soggy

   bebs1.wordpress.com/   10/17/2012

   ...out to be just enough on my way home. Only if it didn’t rain. Today I met a friend at Ogilvie Train Station (I take mine at the Union Station) food court. She used to be my co-worker and...

5. How Many Masses It Takes to Become Catholic

   youngevangelicalandcatholic.blogspot.com/   04/17/2012

   ... by St Peter's: it's right on Madison Ave in downtown Chicago between the Ogilvie train station and Millennium Park . When I noticed it on one of my first trips to...

6. Support Green Fun Raiser Sat. March 17 - Help BNICEH

   greenthinktankfordisabilitycommunity.blogspot.com/   03/02/2012

   ....com/ "Make Your Own Medicine" Chicago French Market 131 N. Clinton Chicago – Ogilvie Train Station- Alternate entrance for paratransit: 118 N. Canal FREE admission/ Donation: $ 15-20 (paid...

7. Chicago Visit

   cheerfulthriftydoor.blogspot.com/   11/22/2011

   ... season. A fter an hour and a half train ride we arrived at Ogilvie train station in the heart of Chicago. The station is a short distance to State Street, so we...

8. A Few of My Favorite (Preggo) Things

   mommysalright.wordpress.com/   12/20/2011

   ...Have at it. Mine were Cheez-Its and Jamba Juice. I was a regular of the Ogilvie train station’s JJ – the guy at the counter literally saw me coming from a mile away...

9. On the Edge of the Ledge

   brenda-beesnest.blogspot.com/   08/22/2011

   ...and on life. We started out walking about three miles from the Ogilvie train station to Magnolia Street. We had a beautiful day and it was great to be outside...

10. The Chicago French Market!

    goodliving-jenbb.blogspot.com/   04/01/2011

    ...contraband cheese-it's all over the chair, anything to keep her happy. We pulled into Ogilvie train station and walked immediately down the steps that are out by the train...

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About 'twickenham train station'|Cricketers and their train stations

About 'twickenham train station'|Cricketers and their train stations

Ｒｅｂｏｒｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｎｉｃｋ               ｏｆ               Ｔｉｍｅ               Ｔｈｅ               ｐｅｒｉｏｄ               ｅｍｂｒａｃｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ａｕｔｕｍｎ               ｏｆ               1992               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｆｅｗ               ｗｅｅｋｓ               ｏｆ               ｗｉｎｔｅｒ               ｍａｙ               ｗｅｌｌ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｓｔ               ｄｅｂａｕｃｈｅｄ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｅｎｔｉｒｅ               ｅｘｉｓｔｅｎｃｅ.                Ｉ'ｄ               ｇｅｔ               ｕｐ               ｅａｒｌｙ,               ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｙ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｓｉｘ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｐｒｅｐａｒｅ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｄａｙ               ａｈｅａｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｂｏｔｔｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｗｉｎｅ,               ｕｓｕａｌｌｙ               ｆｏｒｔｉｆｉｅｄ,               ｔｈｅｎ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｋｅｅｐ               ｍｙ               ｕｎｉｔｓ               ｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｙ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｖｏｄｋａ               ｏｒ               ｇｉｎ,               ｔａｋｉｎｇ               ｒｅｇｕｌａｒ               ｓｗｉｇｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｎｉａｔｕｒｅｓ               Ｉ               ｌｉｋｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｈａｖｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｅ               ａｔ               ａｌｌ               ｔｉｍｅｓ. 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Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｅｕｐｈｏｒｉｃ               ｄｒｕｎｋ               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｕｎｐｌｅａｓａｎｔ...ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｕｎｐｒｅｄｉｃｔａｂｌｅ...ａ               ｔｒｕｅ               Ｄｉｏｎｙｓｉａｎ               ｗｈｏ'ｄ               ｃｒｙ               ｏｕｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｎｏ               ｒｅａｓｏｎ               ｏｎ               ａ               Ｂｒｉｔｉｓｈ               Ｒａｉｌ               ｔｒａｉｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｄｄｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ａｆｔｅｒｎｏｏｎ. Ｏｎｅ               ａｆｔｅｒｎｏｏｎ               Ｉ               ｔｏｒｅ               ｍｙ               ｃｌｏｔｈｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｓｈｒｅｄｓ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ａｒｒｉｖｅｄ               ｔｏｏ               ｌａｔｅ               ｆｏｒ               ａｎ               ａｕｄｉｔｉｏｎ               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｂａｒｍａｎ               ｗｈｏ               ｓｅｒｖｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｌａｔｅｒ               ｏｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｙ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｉｆ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｉｎｖｏｌｖｅｄ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｆｉｇｈｔ...ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈａｍｅｆｕｌ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ａｔ               Ｗａｔｅｒｌｏｏ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               -               ｏｒ               ｗａｓ               ｉｔ               Ｌｉｖｅｒｐｏｏｌ               Ｓｔｒｅｅｔ? -               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｇｅｎｔｌｙ               ｅｓｃｏｒｔｅｄ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｎｃｏｕｒｓｅ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｔｒａｉｎ               ｂｙ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｒｕｎｋｓ               ｗｈｏ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｌｅｅｐ               ｒｏｕｇｈ               ａｔ               ｍａｉｎｌｉｎｅ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎｓ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｈｅｎ.                Ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ,               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｉｎｓａｎｅ               ｉｎｃｉｄｅｎｔｓ               ｃａｍｅ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｈｅａｄ               ｏｎｅ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ｉｎ               ｅａｒｌｙ               1993               ｉｎ               ａｎ               Ｉｎｄｉａｎ               ｒｅｓｔａｕｒａｎｔ               ｉｎ               Ｈａｍｐｔｏｎ               Ｃｏｕｒｔ               ｃｌｏｓｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               Ｓｕｒｒｅｙ-Ｌｏｎｄｏｎ               ｂｏｒｄｅｒ. Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｄｉｎｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｗｏ               ｆｅｍａｌｅ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ｗｈｅｎ,               ｓｕｄｄｅｎｌｙ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｐｕｒｅ               ｄｅａｔｈ,               Ｉ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｅ               ｃｌｏｓｅｓｔ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ               ｗｈｅｔｈｅｒ               Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ａｓ               ｂａｄ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ. Ｓｈｅ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｕｐ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｔａｂｌｅ,               ｗａｌｋｅｄ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｐａｃｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｃｏｌｌａｐｓｅｄ               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｓｔｏｎｅ               ｄｅａｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｄｄｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔａｕｒａｎｔ. Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｃａｒｒｉｅｄ               ｂｏｄｉｌｙ               ｏｕｔ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｒｅｓｈ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ａｉｒ               ｂｙ               ｔｗｏ               ｏｒ               ｔｈｒｅｅ               Ｉｎｄｉａｎ               ｗａｉｔｅｒｓ,               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｗｈｏｍ               ｓｅｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｓｈｏｃｋｉｎｇ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｍｅ               ｂｙ               ｆｌｉｃｋｉｎｇ               ｉｃｅ               ｃｏｌｄ               ｗａｔｅｒ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｆａｃｅ. "Ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｇｉｖｅ               ｕｐ",               ｈｅ               ｐｌｅａｄｅｄ,               ｈｉｓ               ｖｏｉｃｅ               ｂｅｔｒａｙｉｎｇ               ｔｒｕｅ               ｃｏｎｃｅｒｎ...ａｎｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｔｈａｎｋｓ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｍ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｓｅｍｂｌａｎｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｗｅｌｌ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｄｒｉｖｅｎ               ｈｏｍｅ.                Ｙｅｔ,               ｗｉｔｈｉｎ               ｔｗｏ               ｄａｙｓ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｄｒｉｎｋｉｎｇ               ａｓ               ｈｅａｖｉｌｙ               ａｓ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ,               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｓｏ               ｖｉｒｔｕａｌｌｙ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｌｏｃｋ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｅｅｋｅｎｄ. Ｉ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｓｐｅｎｔ               Ｓａｔｕｒｄａｙ               ｅｖｅｎｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｃｌｏｓｅ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔａｕｒａｎｔ,               ａｎｄ               ａｔ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               16ｔｈ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ｄｒｕｎｋ               ｓｏｌｉｄｌｙ               ａｌｌ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               Ｉ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｆｉｌｌ               ａ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｇｌａｓｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｎｅａｔ               ｇｉｎ               ａｎｄ               ｅａｃｈ               ｓｉｐ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｍｅ               ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｅｓｉｒｅｄ               ｓｔａｔｅ               ｏｆ               ｂｌｉｓｓｆｕｌ               ｆｏｒｇｅｔｆｕｌｎｅｓｓ.                Ｉ               ａｗｏｋｅ               ｅｘｈｉｌａｒａｔｅｄ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｒｍａｌ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｉｎｇ               ａ               ｌｅｎｇｔｈｙ               ｂｉｎｇｅ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｍｙ               ｏｎｅ               ｄｒｙｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｄａｙ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｅｅｋ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ               ｓｐｅｎｔ               ｉｔ               ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ               ａｓ               ｗｅｌｌ               ａｓ               ｃｌｅａｎｉｎｇ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｅ               ａｃｃｕｍｕｌａｔｅｄ               ｃｈａｏｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｓｔ               ｗｅｅｋ. Ｏｎｅ               ｔｈｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｄｅｆｉｎｉｔｅｌｙ               ｄｉｄ               ｄｏ               ｗａｓ               ｌｉｓｔｅｎ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｒａｄｉｏ               ｄｏｃｕｍｅｎｔａｒｙ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅｇｅｎｄａｒｙ               Ｌ.Ａ. Ｒｏｃｋ               ｂａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ｄｏｏｒｓ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｔａｐｅｄ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｗｅｅｋｓ               ｏｒ               ｐｅｒｈａｐｓ               ｍｏｎｔｈｓ               ｅａｒｌｉｅｒ. Ｉ               ｅｓｐｅｃｉａｌｌｙ               ｓａｖｏｕｒｅｄ               "Ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｍｕｓｉｃ'ｓ               Ｏｖｅｒ"               ｆｒｏｍ               ｗｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｆａｖｏｕｒｉｔｅ               ａｌｂｕｍｓ,               "Ｓｔｒａｎｇｅ               Ｄａｙｓ"               ｒｅｌｅａｓｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｋｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｓｕｍｍｅｒ               ｏｆ               Ｌｏｖｅ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               12ｔｈ               ｂｉｒｔｈｄａｙ,               7               Ｏｃｔｏｂｅｒ               1967. Ｔｈｉｓ               ａｐｏｃａｌｙｐｔｉｃ               ｅｐｉｃ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｉｔｓ               ｕｎｅａｒｔｈｌｙ               ｓｃｒｅａｍｓ               ａｎｄ               ｅｃｓｔａｔｉｃａｌｌｙ               ｄｉｓｃｏｒｄａｎｔ               ｇｕｉｔａｒ               ｓｏｌｏ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｌｉｖｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈａｄｏｗ               ｏｆ               ｄｅａｔｈ,               ｂｅｃｋｏｎｉｎｇ               ｄｅａｔｈ,               ｍｏｃｋｉｎｇ               ｄｅａｔｈ,               ｄｅｆｙｉｎｇ               ｄｅａｔｈ.                Ｉ               ｐｏｗｅｒｆｕｌｌｙ               ｉｄｅｎｔｉｆｉｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               Ｄｏｏｒｓ'               ｇｉｆｔｅｄ               ｓｉｎｇｅｒ               Ｊｉｍ               Ｍｏｒｒｉｓｏｎ...ｗｈｏ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｄｒａｗｎ               ａｓ               ａ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｍａｎ               ｔｏ               ｐｏｅｔｓ               ｏｆ               ｄａｒｋｌｙ               ｐｒｏｐｈｅｔｉｃ               ｉｎｔｅｎｓｉｔｙ,               ｓｕｃｈ               ａｓ               Ｂｌａｋｅ,               Ｎｉｅｔｚｓｃｈｅ,               Ｒｉｍｂａｕｄ,               Ａｒｔａｕｄ,               ａｓ               ｗｅｌｌ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｅｔｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｂｅａｔ               Ｇｅｎｅｒａｔｉｏｎ,               ｗｈｏ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ               ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               -               ｌａｒｇｅｌｙ               Ｆｒｅｎｃｈ               -               Ｒｏｍａｎｔｉｃ               ｐｏèｔｅｓ               ｍａｕｄｉｔｓ,               ｗｈｏｓｅ               ｗｏｒｋｓ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｗｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｃｈａｎｇｅ               ｌｉｖｅｓ,               ａｓ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｓｕｒｅｌｙ               ｄｉｄ               Ｍｏｒｒｉｓｏｎ'ｓ. Ｈｉｓ               ｐｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｙ               ｏｆ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｗａｓ               ｃｌｅａｒｌｙ               ｉｎｆｏｒｍｅｄ               ｂｙ               Ｂｌａｋｅ,               ｗｈｏ               ｗｒｏｔｅ               ｏｆ               "ｔｈｅ               ｒｏａｄ               ｏｆ               ｅｘｃｅｓｓ"               ｌｅａｄｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               "ｔｈｅ               ｐａｌａｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｗｉｓｄｏｍ",               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｈｅｌｌ               ｒａｉｓｉｎｇ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎａ               ｃａｍｅ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｄｅｇｒｅｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｒｉｍｂａｕｄ,               ｗｈｏ               ｅｘｔｏｌｌｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｖｉｒｔｕｅｓ               ｏｆ               "ａ               ｌｏｎｇ,               ｉｍｍｅｎｓｅ               ａｎｄ               ｓｙｓｔｅｍａｔｉｃ               ｄｅｒａｎｇｅｍｅｎｔ               ｏｆ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｎｓｅｓ"               ａｓ               ａｎ               ａｎｇｅｌ-ｆａｃｅｄ               ｈｏｏｌｉｇａｎ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｐａｒｉｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｅａｒｌｙ               1870ｓ. Ｗｈａｔ               ａ               ｐｒｉｃｅ               ｈｅ               ｐａｉｄ...ｄｅａｄ               ａｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               27...ｌｉｋｅ               Ｊｏｎｅｓ,               Ｈｅｎｄｒｉｘ,               Ｊｏｐｌｉｎ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｈｉｍ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               ｔｈｅ               '60ｓ               ｄｒｅａｍ               ｗａｓ               ｒｅｖｅａｌｅｄ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｇｕｉｌｉｎｇ               ｃｈｉｍｅｒａ               ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａｌｌ               ａｌｏｎｇ.                Ａｆｔｅｒ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ｓｐｅｎｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｙ               ｒｅｖｅｌｌｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｏｗｎ               ｉｎａｎｅ               ｎｏｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ａｓ               ａ               ｐｏｅｔ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｄｇｅ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｍｙ               ｈｅｒｏｅｓ,               ａｔ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｅａｒｌｙ               ｅｖｅｎｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｃｏｕｒｔｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｓｏ               ｌｏｎｇ...ａｎ               ｉｎｔｉｍａｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｅａｒｌｙ               ｄｅａｔｈ,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｐｒｅｔｔｙ               ｗｅｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｂｅｌｏｖｅｄ               ｅｌｉｘｉｒ               ａｎｄ               ｂｅｃａｍｅ               ａ               ｍｏｒｔａｌ               ｅｎｅｍｙ,               ｃａｕｓｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｌｅｇｓ               ｔｏ               ｌｏｓｅ               ｓｅｎｓａｔｉｏｎ               ａｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｆｏｒｃｅ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｃｅｄｅ               ａｔ               ａ               ｆｕｒｉｏｕｓ               ａｎｄ               ｔｅｒｒｉｆｙｉｎｇ               ｒａｔｅ. Ｉｎ               ａ               ｂｌｉｎｄ               ｐａｎｉｃ,               Ｉ               ｏｐｅｎｅｄ               ａ               ｓｐａｒｅ               ｂｏｔｔｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｓｐａｒｋｌｉｎｇ               ｗｉｎｅ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｈｏｐｅｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｏ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｄｒｉｎｋ               ｔｈａｔ               ｄａｙ. Ｏｎｃｅ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｄｒａｉｎｅｄ               ｉｔ,               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｗｈｉｌｅ,               ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ               ｓｏ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｓｏ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｔｏｏｋ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｓｎａｐｓ               ｏｆ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｌｏｕｎｇｉｎｇ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ｈａｇｇａｒｄ               ａｎｄ               ｕｎｓｈａｖｅｎ,               ｗｉｔｈ               ｆｒｅｓｈｌｙ               ｃｒｏｐｐｅｄ               ｈａｉｒ.                Ｓｏｏｎ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｍａｃａｂｒｅ               ｐｈｏｔｏ               ｓｅｓｓｉｏｎ               Ｉ               ｓｅｔ               ｏｆｆ               ｉｎ               ｓｅａｒｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｍｏｒｅ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ. Ａｒｒｉｖｉｎｇ               ａｔ               ａ               ｌｏｃａｌ               ｄｅｌｉｃａｔｅｓｓｅｎ,               ｔｈｅ               Ａｓｉａｎ               ｓｈｏｐ-ｋｅｅｐｅｒ               ｎｅｒｖｏｕｓｌｙ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｆｆ-ｌｉｃｅｎｓｅ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｙｅｔ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｂｕｔ               ｔａｋｅ               ｒｅｆｕｇｅ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｎｅａｒｂｙ               ｇｒｅｅｎ,               ｗｈｅｒｅ               Ｉ               ｌａｙ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｗｈｉｌｅ,               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｄｒｅｓｓｅｄ               Ｉ               ｉｍａｇｉｎｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈａｂｂｙ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               ｃｕｔ-ｏｆｆｓ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｗｅａｒｉｎｇ               ｅａｒｌｉｅｒ. Ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ,               ｔｈｅ               ｏｆｆｉｅ               ｏｐｅｎｅｄ               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｂｕｙ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｂｏｏｚｅ. Ｉ               ｃａｎ'ｔ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｂｏｕｇｈｔ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｉｔ               ｍａｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａ               ｌｉｔｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｇｉｎ,               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｇｕｚｚｌｉｎｇ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｄａｙ. Ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｓｔ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ               Ｉ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               Ｓｕｎｄａｙ               ｅｖｅｎｉｎｇ               ｗａｓ               ｓｉｎｇｉｎｇ               ｈｙｍｎｓ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｎｅａｒｂｙ               Ｍｅｔｈｏｄｉｓｔ               ｃｈｕｒｃｈ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｅａｒｓ               ｆｌｏｗｅｄ...ｔｅａｒｓ               ｏｆ               ｒｅｍｏｒｓｅ,               ｔｅａｒｓ               ｏｆ               ｆｅａｒ,               ｔｅａｒｓ               ｏｆ               ｄｅｓｐｅｒａｔｉｏｎ.                Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｎｏ               ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ               ｍｅｍｏｒｙ               ｏｆ               ｗｈａｔ               ｈａｐｐｅｎｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｅｌｌｉｓｈ               ｎｉｇｈｔ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｍａｎｙ               ｓｕｃｈ               ｎｉｇｈｔｓ               ａｈｅａｄ. Ａｔ               ｌｅａｓｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｓａｗ               ｍｅ               ｅｎｄｌｅｓｓｌｙ               ｐａｃｉｎｇ               ｕｐ               ａｎｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｃｏｒｒｉｄｏｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｔａｉｒｓ               ｉｎ               ａｎ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔ               ｔｏ               ｓｔａｙ               ｃｏｎｓｃｉｏｕｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               -               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｉｔ               -               ｎｏｔ               ｄｉｅ...ａｎｄ               ｅａｃｈ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｓｈｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｓ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｓｗｏｒｎ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｄｅｍｏｎｉｃ               ｅｎｔｉｔｉｅｓ               ｂｅｃｋｏｎｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｂｏｔｔｏｍｌｅｓｓ               ｂｌａｃｋ               ａｂｙｓｓ. Ｉ               ｓｅｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｒｉｄｄｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ｏｆ               ａｒｔｅｆａｃｔｓ               Ｉ               ｓｏｍｅｈｏｗ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｏｆｆｅｎｓｉｖｅ               ｔｏ               Ｇｏｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               16ｔｈ               ａｎｄ               17ｔｈ               ｏｎｗａｒｄｓ. Ｍａｎｙ               ｂｏｏｋｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｄｅｓｔｒｏｙｅｄ...ｂｏｏｋｓ               ｏｎ               ａｓｔｒｏｌｏｇｙ               ａｎｄ               ｎｕｍｅｒｏｌｏｇｙ               ａｎｄ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｍｙｓｔｉｃａｌ               ａｎｄ               ｏｃｃｕｌｔ               ｓｕｂｊｅｃｔｓ,               ｂｏｏｋｓ               ｏｎ               ｗａｒ               ａｎｄ               ｃｒｉｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ａｔｒｏｃｉｔｙ,               ａｎｄ               ｂｏｏｋｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ａｒｔｉｓｔｓ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｃａｌｌ               ａｃｃｕｒｓｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｋｉｎｓｈｉｐ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｄｒｕｎｋｅｎｎｅｓｓ               ａｎｄ               ｍａｄｎｅｓｓ               ａｎｄ               ｄｅａｔｈ.                Ｉ               ｇｅｎｕｉｎｅｌｙ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈ               ｔｈａｔ               ｆｏｒ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｒｒｏｒｓ               Ｉ               ｕｎｄｅｒｗｅｎｔ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｃａｍｅ               ｔｏ               ａｃｃｅｐｔ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔ               ａｓ               ｍｙ               Ｓａｖｉｏｕｒ. Ｈａｄ               ｍｙ               ｖｉｏｌｅｎｔ               ｃｏｎｖｅｒｓｉｏｎ               ｎｏｔ               ｃｏｍｅ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｄｉｄ,               Ｉ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｌｏｓｔ               ｆｏｒｅｖｅｒ,               ｄｅｐｅｎｄｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ｃｏｕｒｓｅ               ｏｎ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ａ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎ               ｓｔａｎｄｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｓｓｕｅ               ｏｆ               Ｐｒｅｄｅｓｔｉｎａｔｉｏｎ               ａｎｄ               Ｆｒｅｅ               Ｗｉｌｌ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｈａｖｅ               ｓｕｒｅｌｙ               ｉｍｍｅｒｓｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｗ               Ｂｏｈｅｍｉａｎｉｓｍ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               1990ｓ. Ｔｈｅ               ａｄｖｅｒｓａｒｙ               ｖａｌｕｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｘｔｉｅｓ               ｈａｄ               ａｐｐａｒｅｎｔｌｙ               ｖａｎｉｓｈｅｄ               ｂｙ               ａｂｏｕｔ               1973,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ               ｔｈｅｙ'ｄ               ｓｉｍｐｌｙ               ｇｏｎｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｕｎｄｅｒｇｒｏｕｎｄ,               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｓｅｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｆｅｒｔｉｌｉｓｉｎｇ               ｎｅｗ               ａｎｔｉ-ｅｓｔａｂｌｉｓｈｍｅｎｔ               ｃｌａｎｓ               ｓｕｃｈ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               Ａｎａｒｃｈｏ-Ｐｕｎｋｓ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ｎｅｗ               Ａｇｅ               Ｔｒａｖｅｌｌｅｒｓ               ｗｈｏ               ｑｕｉｅｔｌｙ               ｆｌｏｕｒｉｓｈｅｄ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               '80ｓ. Ａｒｏｕｎｄ               '92,               ｓｏｍｅ               ｋｉｎｄ               ｏｆ               ａｍａｌｇａｍ               ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｔｒｉｂｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｒｏｗｉｎｇ               Ｒａｖｅ-Ｄａｎｃｅ               ｍｏｖｅｍｅｎｔ               ｐｒｏｄｕｃｅｄ               ｙｅｔ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｇｒｅａｔ               ｃｏｕｎｔｅｒｃｕｌｔｕｒｅ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｒｅａｄｙ...ｒｅａｄｙ               ａｓ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ｍｙ               ｐｌａｃｅ               ａｓ               ａ               ｚｅａｌｏｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｎｅｗ               Ｅｄｇｅ,               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｄｅｌｉｖｅｒｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｉｔｓ               ｓｅｄｕｃｔｉｖｅ               ｇｒａｓｐ               ｂｙ               ａ               ｖｉｏｌｅｎｔ               "Ｒｏａｄ               ｔｏ               Ｄａｍａｓｃｕｓ"               ｃｏｎｖｅｒｓｉｏｎ. Ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ,               ｉｆ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｒｅｂｏｒｎ               ａｇａｉｎｓｔ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｄｄｓ,               Ｉ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｕｆｆｅｒ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｈｙｓｉｃａｌ,               ｉｆ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｂｒｉｅｆｌｙ.                Ｍａｎｙ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎｓ               ａｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｉｎｉｏｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｎｇｅｒ               ａ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎ               ｐｕｔｓ               ｏｆｆ               ｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅｓｓ               ｌｉｋｅｌｙ               ｉｔ               ｂｅｃｏｍｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｓｏ               ａｎｄ               Ｉ'ｍ               ａｍｏｎｇ               ｔｈｅｍ. Ｉ               ａｌｓｏ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎｓ               ｗｈｏ               ｃｏｎｖｅｒｔ               ｒｅｌａｔｉｖｅｌｙ               ｌａｔｅ               ｉｎ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｍａｙ               ｂｅ               ｒｅｑｕｉｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｐａｙ               ａ               ｆａｒ               ｈｉｇｈｅｒ               ｐｒｉｃｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｏｌｌｉｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｐｒｅ-Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ               ｅｘｉｓｔｅｎｃｅ               ｔｈａｎ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｙｏｕｔｈｆｕｌ               ｃｏｎｖｅｒｔｓ. Ｇｏｄ               ｃａｎ               ａｎｄ               ｄｏｅｓ               ｈｅａｌ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎｓ               ｄａｍａｇｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｐｒｅ-ｃｏｎｖｅｒｓｉｏｎ               ｓｉｎｓ               ｂｕｔ               Ｈｅ'ｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｏｂｌｉｇｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｓｏ               ａｓ               ｈｉｓ               Ｇｒａｃｅ               ｉｓ               ｓｕｆｆｉｃｉｅｎｔ,               ｓｏ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｃｅｒｔａｉｎｌｙ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ａ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               17ｔｈ               ｏｆ               Ｊａｎｕａｒｙ,               ｍｙ               ｏｒｄｅａｌ               ｗａｓ               ｆａｒ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｏｖｅｒ. Ｉ               ｓｏｍｅｈｏｗ               ｍａｄｅ               ｉｔ               ｉｎｔｏ               Ｎｅｗ               Ｅｌｔｈａｍ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｍｏｎｄａｙ               ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｃｌａｓｓｅｓ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｙ,               ｂｕｔ               ｂｙ               ｅｖｅｎｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｓｏ               ｉｌｌ               Ｉ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｓｗｉｇｇｉｎｇ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｔｒｅ               ｂｏｔｔｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｇｉｎ. Ｉ               ａｌｓｏ               ｐｈｏｎｅｄ               Ａｌｃｏｈｏｌｉｃｓ               Ａｎｏｎｙｍｏｕｓ               ａｔ               ｍｙ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｒｅｑｕｅｓｔ,               ａｎｄ               ａｇｒｅｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｉｖｅ               ａ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ               ａ               ｓｈｏｔ.                Ｎｅｘｔ               ｄａｙ,               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｙ               ｔｏ               Ｒｉｃｈｍｏｎｄ               Ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ,               Ｉ               ｇｏｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｒｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｏ               ｅｘｐｌｏｄｅ,               ｎｏｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｂｕｔ               ｏｖｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ａｇａｉｎ. Ａｆｔｅｒ               ｃｌａｓｓｅｓ,               Ｉ               ｔｒｉｅｄ               ｗａｌｋｉｎｇ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               Ｔｗｉｃｋｅｎｈａｍ               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｍｙ               ｌｅｇｓ               ａｎｄ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｒｕｇｇｌｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｓｔａｙ               ｃｏｎｓｃｉｏｕｓ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｅｎｄｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｏｒｄｅｒｉｎｇ               ａ               ｄｏｕｂｌｅ               ｂｒａｎｄｙ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｕｂ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               Ｐｏｌｉｃｅ               Ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ. Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｓｈａｋｉｎｇ               ｓｏ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｎｄｌｏｒｄ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｆｒｅｓｈ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａｎ               ｉｎｔｅｒｒｏｇａｔｉｏｎ               ｓｅｓｓｉｏｎ. Ｌａｔｅｒ,               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｒｏｗｎ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｐｕｂ               ｆｏｒ               ｐｒｅａｃｈｉｎｇ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｏｐ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｖｏｉｃｅ,               ｔｈｅｎ,               ｗａｌｋｉｎｇ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               Ｔｗｉｃｋｅｎｈａｍ               ｔｏｗｎ               ｃｅｎｔｒｅ               Ｉ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｍａｋｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｇｎ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｏ               ｐａｓｓｅｒｓ-ｂｙ,               ｔｅｌｌｉｎｇ               ｏｎｅ               ｐｏｏｒ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｇｕｙ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ｔｏ               ｄｒｉｎｋ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｋｉｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｗａｌｋｉｎｇ               ａｄｖｅｒｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｅｍｐｅｒａｎｃｅ               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｎｏｄｄｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｓａｙｉｎｇ               ａ               ｗｏｒｄ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｓｃｕｒｒｙｉｎｇ               ａｗａｙ.                Ｂａｃｋ               ｈｏｍｅ,               ｉｎ               ａｎ               ｅｆｆｏｒｔ               ｔｏ               ｃａｌｍ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｄｏｗｎ,               Ｉ               ｄｕｇ               ｏｕｔ               ａ               ｓｅｄａｔｉｖｅ               ｃｏｍｍｏｎｌｙ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｒｅａｔｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｎｔｒｏｌｌｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｆｆｅｃｔｓ               ｏｆ               ａｃｕｔｅ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ               ｗｉｔｈｄｒａｗａｌ,               ｂｕｔ               ｄａｎｇｅｒｏｕｓ,               ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ               ｐｏｔｅｎｔｉａｌｌｙ               ｆａｔａｌ,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｃｏｎｊｕｎｃｔｉｏｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ. Ｉ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｈａｄ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｃａｐｓｕｌｅｓ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａｂｏｕｔ               1990               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｐｒｅｓｃｒｉｂｅｄ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｂｙ               ｍｙ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｄｏｃｔｏｒ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｍｅａｎｔ               ｔｈｅｙ'ｄ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｇｏｎｅ               ｂｅｙｏｎｄ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｅｘｐｉｒｙ               ｄａｔｅ. Ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｗａｓ               ａｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｌｅｅｐ,               ｂｕｔ               ｓｏｏｎ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｗａｋｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｗｏｒｓｅ               ｔｈａｎ               ｅｖｅｒ. Ｌａｔｅｒ,               ａｔ               ａｎ               ＡＡ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ,               Ｉ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｌｅａｖｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏｏｍ               ｔｏ               ｄｏｕｓｅ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ               ｉｎ               ｃｏｌｄ               ｗａｔｅｒ,               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｓｈｏｃｋ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｍｅ,               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｉｓｍａｙ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｓｐｏｎｓｏｒ               ｗｈｏ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｔａｙ               ｐｕｔ,               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｓｏ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｅｘｅｒｔ               ａ               ｈｅａｌｉｎｇ               ｅｆｆｅｃｔ.                Ｎｅｘｔ               ｄａｙ               ｓａｗ               ｍｅ               ｐａｃｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｆｆｉｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ａｖａｉｌａｂｌｅ               ｄｏｃｔｏｒ,               ｗｈｏ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ａｔ               ａ               ｌｏｓｓ               ａｓ               ｔｏ               ｗｈａｔ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｅ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｍａｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｏｕｃｈ               ａｎｄ               ｇｏ               ａｓ               ｔｏ               ｗｈｅｔｈｅｒ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｓｔａｙ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｆｅｅｔ               ｏｒ               ｏｖｅｒｄｏｓｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｐｏｔ               ａｎｄ               ｄｉｅ               ｏｎ               ｈｉｍ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｈｅ               ｗｈｏ               ｐｒｅｓｃｒｉｂｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｈｅ               Ｖａｌｉｕｍ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｃａｕｓｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｆａｌｌ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｄｅｅｐ,               ｄｅｅｐ               ｓｌｅｅｐ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｍａｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｓａｖｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               Ｉ               ａｗｏｋｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｎｓｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ａ               ｆｒｏｎｔｉｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｄａｎｇｅｒ               ａｔ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｌａｓｔ.                Ｔｈｅ               ｐｉｅｃｅ               ｂｅｌｏｗ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｅｘｉｓｔｅｄ               ａｓ               ａ               ｓｅｒｉｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｒｏｕｇｈ               ｎｏｔｅｓ               ｓｃｒａｗｌｅｄ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｐｉｅｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｓｃｒａｐ               ｐａｐｅｒ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｙｉｎｇ               ｄａｙｓ               ｏｆ               1993               ａｎｄ               ａｒｅ               ａ               ｐｒｅｔｔｙ               ａｃｃｕｒａｔｅ               ａｃｃｏｕｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｎｃｉｄｅｎｔｓ               Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｄｅｓｃｒｉｂｅｄ.                Ｏｂｌｉｖｉｏｎ               ｉｎ               Ｒｅｃｅｓｓｉｏｎ                Ｔｈｅ               ｌｅｇｓ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｇｏｉｎｇ,                               Ｈｏｗｌｉｎｇｓ                               Ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ.                Ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｇｏ                               Ｋｅｐｔ               ａｗａｋｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｗａｔｅｒ,                               Ｂｒｅａｔｈｉｎｇ,                               Ａｒｒｏｇａｎｔｌｙ               ｔｅｌｌｉｎｇ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ                               Ｉ'ｄ               ｓｔａｙ               ｓｔｒａｉｇｈｔ.                Ｄｒａｎｋ               ｇｉｎ               ａｎｄ               ｗｉｎｅ,                               Ｗｅｎｔ               ｏｕｔ,                               Ｔｒｉｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｕｙ               ｍｏｒｅ,                               Ｕｎｓｈａｖｅｎ,                               Ｆｉｌｔｈｙ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               ｓｈｏｒｔｓ,                               Ｌｏｓｔ,               ｒｏｌｌｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｌａｗｎ,                               Ｓｏｍｅｈｏｗ               ｇｏｔ               ｈｏｍｅ.                Ｍｏｎｄａｙ,               ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｏｆｆｉｅ,                               Ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｄｅａｔｈ,                               Ｆｅａｒ               ｉｎ               ｅｙｅｓ                               Ｏｆ               ｐａｓｓｅｒｓ-ｂｙ,                               Ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｄｒｉｎｋ,                               Ｄｒｉｎｋ               ｒｅｌｉｅｖｅｄ               ｍｅ.                Ｄｒａｎｋ               ａｌｌ               ｄａｙ,                               Ｃｏｌｌａｐｓｅｄ               ｗｅｐｔ                               "Ｄｏｎ'ｔ               Ｄｉｅ               ｏｎ               Ｍｅ".                Ｎｅｘｔ               ｄａｙ,                               Ｄｏｕｂｌｅ               ｂｒａｎｄｙ                               Ｊｕｓｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｓｅｔｔｌｅｄ               ｍｅ,                               Ｄｒａｎｋ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｍｏｒｅ,                               Ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｃｏｎｓｔａｎｔｌｙ                               Ｉ'ｄ               ｃｏｌｌａｐｓｅ                               Ｔｈｅｎ               ｗｈａｔ?                Ｆｉｔ? Ｃｏｒｏｎａｒｙ?                Ｉｎｓａｎｉｔｙ? Ｗｏｒｓｅ?                Ｔｏｏｋ               ａ               Ｈｅｍｉｎｅｖｒｉｎ                               Ｐａｃｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｕｓｅ                               Ａｌｌ               ｎｉｇｈｔ,                               Ｐａｉｎ               ｉｎ               ｃｈｅｓｔ,                               Ｗｅａｋ               ｌｅｇｓ,                               Ｌａｃｋ               ｏｆ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ                               Ｉｎ               ｅｘｔｒｅｍｉｔｉｅｓ,                               Ｖｉｓｉｏｎｓ               ｏｆ               ｄａｒｋｎｅｓｓ.                Ｄｒａｎｋ               ｗａｔｅｒ                               Ｔｏ               ｋｅｅｐ               ｔｈｅ                               Ｌｉｆｅ               ｆｕｎｃｔｉｏｎｓ               ｇｏｉｎｇ                               Ｐｌａｙｅｄ               ｄｅｖｏｔｉｏｎａｌ               ｍｕｓｉｃ,                               Ｄｅｄｉｃａｔｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ                               Ｔｏ               Ｇｏｄ,                               Ｐｒａｙｅｄ               ｃｏｎｓｔａｎｔｌｙ,                               Ｒｅｎｏｕｎｃｅｄ               ｅｖｉｌ.                Ｎｅｘｔ               ｄａｙ,                               Ｔｗｏ               ｖａｌｉｕｍｓ                               Ｈｅｌｐｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｓｌｅｅｐ.                Ｂｙ               ｅｖｅ,                               Ｉ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ.                Ｓｕｄｄｅｎｌｙ,                               Ａｌｌ               ｉｓ               ｃｌｅａｒｅｒ,                               Ｔａｓｔｅ,               ｓｏｕｎｄｓ,                               Ｉ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｈｕｍａｎ               ａｇａｉｎ.                Ｉ               ｍａｄｅ               ｍｙ               ｃｈｏｉｃｅ,                               Ａｎｄ               ｏｂｌｉｖｉｏｎ               ｈａｓ               ｒｅｃｅｄｅｄ,                               Ａｎｄ               ｓｈａｌｌ               ｄｉｓａｐｐｅａｒ...                Ｃａｌｌｅｄ               ｂｙ               Ｃｏｎｔａｃｔ               ｆｏｒ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔ                Ｔｏ               ｒｅｉｔｅｒａｔｅ               ａｎ               ｅａｒｌｉｅｒ               ａｓｓｅｒｔｉｏｎ...ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｉｓ               ａ               ｗｉｄｅｌｙ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｂｅｌｉｅｆ               ｗｉｔｈｉｎ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎｉｔｙ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｏｎｅｒ               ａ               ｐｅｒｓｏｎ               ｃｏｍｅｓ               ｔｏ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｃｏｍｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｉｍｍｏｒｔａｌ               ｓｏｕｌ. Ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ｓａｉｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｓｕｂｓｅｑｕｅｎｔ               ｒｅｌａｔｉｏｎｓｈｉｐ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ｇｏｄ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｍａｙ               ｆｏｒ               ｅｘａｍｐｌｅ               ｂｅ               ｓｅｒｉｏｕｓ               ｈｅａｌｔｈ               ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍｓ               ｒｅｓｕｌｔｉｎｇ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａ               ｆｏｒｍｅｒ               ｓｅｌｆ-ｄｅｓｔｒｕｃｔｉｖｅ               ｌｉｆｅｓｔｙｌｅ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｄａｍａｇｅ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｅｆｆｅｃｔｉｖｅｎｅｓｓ               ａｓ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ               ｗｉｔｎｅｓｓｅｓ.                Ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｈａｎｄ,               ｏｎｅ               ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｅ               ａｄｖａｎｔａｇｅ               ｏｆ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ａ               ｌａｔｅ               ｃｏｎｖｅｒｔ               ｉｓ               ａ               ｔｅｓｔｉｍｏｎｙ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｗｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｃａｕｓｅ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｎｏｒｍａｌｌｙ               ｓｃｅｐｔｉｃａｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒａｎｓｆｏｒｍｉｎｇ               ｐｏｗｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｒｎ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｉｔ               ｕｐ               ａｎｄ               ｔａｋｅ               ｎｏｔｉｃｅ. Ｓｕｃｈ               ａｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｒｅｓｃｕｅｄ               Ｒｏｃｋ               ａｎｄ               Ｒｏｌｌ               ｃｈｉｌｄ...ｒａｉｓｅｄ               ｉｎ               ａｎ               ａｇｅ               ｉｎ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｍｅｓｓａｇｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｒｅｖｏｌｔ...ａｎｄ               ｄｅｆｉａｎｃｅ               ｏｆ               ａｌｌ               ｆｏｒｍｓ               ｏｆ               ａｕｔｈｏｒｉｔｙ,               ｓｏｃｉｅｔｙ,               ｔｈｅ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ,               Ｇｏｄ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｓｐｒｅａｄ               ｂｙ               ａｎ               ａｄｖｅｒｓａｒｙ               ｃｕｌｔｕｒｅ               ｌｅｄ               ｂｙ               Ｒｏｃｋ               ｍｕｓｉｃ. Ｗｅ               ｄｒａｎｋ               ｄｅｅｐｌｙ               ｗｅ               ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｘｔｉｅｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｐｉｒｉｔｕａｌ               ｄａｒｋｎｅｓｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｌ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａｂｏｕｔ               '65               ｏｎｗａｒｄｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｉｔ               ａｆｆｅｃｔｅｄ               ｕｓ               ｉｎ               ｗａｙｓ               Ｉ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｕｎｉｑｕｅ               ｔｏ               ｕｓ. Ｔｈａｔ               ｄａｒｋｎｅｓｓ               ｈａｓ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａ               ｔｈｏｒｎ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｆｌｅｓｈ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｍｙ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｄａｙｓ               ａｓ               ａ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ,               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｓｕｆｆｅｒｅｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｐａｎｉｃ               ａｔｔａｃｋｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ａｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｓｔａｇｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ｔｒｉｇｇｅｒｅｄ               ｓｉｍｐｌｙ               ｂｙ               ｖｅｎｔｕｒｉｎｇ               ｂｅｙｏｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｄｏｏｒ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｆｕｌｌｙ               ｔｈｒｏｗ               ｉｔ               ｏｆｆ.                Ｉ               ｓｔｒｕｇｇｌｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ＰＧＣＥ,               ｐａｒｔｌｙ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｙ               ｏｆ               Ｇｒｅｅｎｗｉｃｈ,               ａｎｄ               ｐａｒｔｌｙ               ａｔ               Ｒｉｃｈｍｏｎｄ               Ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ,               Ｔｗｉｃｋｅｎｈａｍ,               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｒｅｈｅａｒｓｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｉｎｙ               ｐａｒｔｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｌａｙ               "Ｓｉｍｐｌｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               Ｍｏｏｎ"               ｂｙ               Ｒｏｓａｌｉｎｄ               Ｓｃａｎｌｏｎ,               ｕｎｄｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｉｒｅｃｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               Ａｒｉａｎａ. Ｂａｓｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｏｆ               Ｊａｍｅｓ               Ｊｏｙｃｅ'ｓ               ｔｒｏｕｂｌｅｄ,               ｆａｓｃｉｎａｔｉｎｇ               ｄａｕｇｈｔｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｎｃｅｒ               Ｌｕｃｉａ               Ｊｏｙｃｅ,               ｉｔ               ｐｒｅｍｉｅｒｅｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｌｙｒｉｃ               Ｓｔｕｄｉｏ,               Ｈａｍｍｅｒｓｍｉｔｈ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               4ｔｈ               ｏｆ               Ｆｅｂｒｕａｒｙ               1993. Ｉ               ａｌｓｏ               ａｔｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ｏｃｃａｓｉｏｎａｌ               ｄｒｕｇｓ               ａｎｄ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ               ｃｏｕｎｓｅｌｌｉｎｇ               ｓｅｓｓｉｏｎｓ               ａｔ               ａ               ｃｈｕｒｃｈ               ｉｎ               Ｇｒｅｅｎｗｉｃｈ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｌｏｖｅｌｙ               ｌａｄｙ               ｏｆ               ａｂｏｕｔ               45               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               Ｌｉｎｄａ,               ｗｈｏ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｓｏｆｔ               ａｎｄ               ｓｏｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｃｏｃｋｎｅｙ               ａｃｃｅｎｔ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｅｎｔｌｅｓｔ               ｐａｌｅ               ｂｌｕｅ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｙｏｕ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｓａｗ. Ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｈｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｌｏｓｅ               ｈｅｒ               ｃｏｏｌ               ｗａｓ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ａｎｎｏｕｎｃｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ａ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｈｏｕｒｓ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｄｅｃｉｄｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｏｗｎ               ｖｏｌｉｔｉｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｓｔｏｐ               ｔａｋｉｎｇ               Ｄｉａｚｅｐａｍ,               Ｉ'ｄ               ｓｗｉｔｃｈｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｙｐｎｏｔｉｃ,               Ｃｈｌｏｍｅｔｈｉａｚｏｌｅ...ｕｎａｗａｒｅ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｉｎｔｅｒａｃｔｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ｖａｌｉｕｍ,               ｉｔ               ｃａｎ               ｂｅ               ｆａｔａｌ. Ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ,               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｈａｄ               ｐａｓｓｅｄ               ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｔａｋｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｃａｐｓｕｌｅ               ａｎｄ               ｍａｋｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｃａｌｌ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ａｎｙ               ｒｅａｌ               ｄａｎｇｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｒｅｃａｌｌ               ｈｅｒ               ｌｉｔｅｒａｌｌｙ               ｌａｕｇｈｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｒｅｌｉｅｆ               ａｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｒｅａｌｉｓａｔｉｏｎ. Ｉ               ｏｗｅ               ｓｏ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｒ...ａｎｄ               ｍｙ               ＡＡ               ｓｐｏｎｓｏｒ               Ｄａｎ               -               ｗｈｏ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｔａｂｓ               ｏｎ               ｍｅ               ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｗｏｒｓｔ               ｔｉｍｅ               -               ａｎｄ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ＡＡ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ｌｉｋｅ               Ａｌａｎ,               ｗｈｏ               ｈａｄ               ｓｕｃｈ               ａ               ｓｏｆｔ               ｓｐｏｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｗｅ               ｍｅｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｉｎ               ａｎ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｗｏｒｓｅ               ｓｔａｔｅ               ｔｈａｎ               ｍｅ. Ｓｔｉｌｌ,               Ｉ               ｃｈｏｓｅ               ｔｏ               ａｔｔｅｎｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ａ               ｈａｎｄｆｕｌ               ｏｆ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇｓ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｓｔｏｐｐｉｎｇ               ａｌｔｏｇｅｔｈｅｒ.                Ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅａｓｏｎｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ａ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｄａｙｓ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔ,               Ｉ               ｒｅｃｅｉｖｅｄ               ａ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｃａｌｌ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａ               ｃｏｕｎｓｅｌｌｏｒ               ｆｏｒ               ａｎ               ｏｒｇａｎｉｓａｔｉｏｎ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               Ｃｏｎｔａｃｔ               ｆｏｒ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔ               ｂａｓｅｄ               ｉｎ               Ｓｅｌｓｄｏｎ,               Ｓｏｕｔｈ               Ｌｏｎｄｏｎ. Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｇｏｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｏｕｃｈ               ａｓ               ａ               ｒｅｓｕｌｔ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ｈａｌｆ-ｈｅａｒｔｅｄｌｙ               ｆｉｌｌｅｄ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｆｏｒｍ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｐｉｃｋｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｔｒａｉｎ,               ｐｅｒｈａｐｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｒｅｖｉｏｕｓ               ｓｕｍｍｅｒ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｆｉｌｌｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌｉｃ               ａｎｔｉｃｉｐａｔｉｏｎ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｓｌｏｗｌｙ               ａｐｐｒｏａｃｈｅｄ               Ｗａｔｅｒｌｏｏ               ｓｔａｔｉｏｎ               ｂｙ               Ｂｒｉｔｉｓｈ               Ｒａｉｌ               ｔｒａｉｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｕｎ               ｓｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｏｒｅｂｏｄｉｎｇ               ｓｏｕｔｈ               Ｌｏｎｄｏｎ               ｃｉｔｙｓｃａｐｅ. Ｋｎｏｗｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               Ｉ               ｔｒｉｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｐｕｔ               ｈｉｍ               ｏｆｆ,               ｂｕｔ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｐｅｒｓｉｓｔｅｎｔ               ａｎｄ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｉｔ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｏｏｒ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ'               ｈｏｕｓｅ,               ａ               ｔｒｉｍ,               ｄａｒｋ,               ｈａｎｄｓｏｍｅ               ｍａｎ               ｉｎ               ｌａｔｅ               ｍｉｄｄｌｅ               ａｇｅ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               Ｓｐｅｎｃｅｒ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｇｅｎｔｌｙ               ｐｉｅｒｃｉｎｇ               ｃｏｆｆｅｅ               ｃｏｌｏｕｒｅｄ               ｅｙｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ａ               ｌｕｘｕｒｉａｎｔ               ｗｈｉｔｅ               ｍｏｕｓｔａｃｈｅ,               ａｎｄ               ａｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｉｎｓｉｓｔｅｎｃｅ               ｗｅ               ｐｒａｙｅｄ               ｔｏｇｅｔｈｅｒ.                Ｓｏｍｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｌａｔｅｒ               Ｉ               ｖｉｓｉｔｅｄ               ｈｉｍ               ａｎｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｗｉｆｅ               Ｇｒａｃｅ               ａｔ               ｈｉｓ               ｌａｒｇｅ               ａｎｄ               ｅｌｅｇａｎｔ               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｓｕｂｕｒｂ               ｍｅｅｔｓ               ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｂｅｙｏｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               Ｇｒｅａｔｅｒ               Ｌｏｎｄｏｎ               ｂｏｒｄｅｒ. Ｏｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｄａｙ,               ｈｅ               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｍａｄｅ               ａｎ               ｅｘｔｅｎｓｉｖｅ               ｌｉｓｔ               ｏｆ               ａｓｐｅｃｔｓ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｐｒｅ-Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｈｅ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｒｅｑｕｉｒｅｄ               ｄｅｅｐ               ｒｅｐｅｎｔａｎｃｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ               ｐｒａｙｅｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ｅａｃｈ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｕｒｎ. Ｍｙ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｉｎｇ               ｕｓｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｏｂａｃｃｏ               ｗａｓ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅｓｓｅｒ               ｉｓｓｕｅｓ               ａｄｄｒｅｓｓｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｉｔ               ｍａｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｃｏｉｎｃｉｄｅｎｔａｌ,               ｓｏｏｎ               ａｆｔｅｒ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｔａｋｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｌａｓｔ               Ｖａｌｉｕｍ,               Ｉ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｅｎｊｏｙｉｎｇ               ｃｉｇａｒｅｔｔｅｓ,               ｓｏ               ｔｈａｔ               ａ               ｓｉｎｇｌｅ               ｄｒａｗ               ｗａｓ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｔｏ               ｉｎｔｅｒｆｅｒｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｂｒｅａｔｈｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｙ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               ｒｏｂ               ｍｅ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｎｉｇｈｔ'ｓ               ｓｌｅｅｐ.                Ｉｎ               ａｄｄｉｔｉｏｎ,               ｗｅ               ｄｉｓｃｕｓｓｅｄ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｃｈｕｒｃｈ               Ｉ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ａｔｔｅｎｄｉｎｇ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｔａｌｋ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｊｏｉｎｉｎｇ               Ｓｐｅｎｃｅｒ               ａｎｄ               Ｇｒａｃｅ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ               ｆｅｌｌｏｗｓｈｉｐ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｕｂｕｒｂｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｄ,               Ｓｐｅｎｃｅｒ               ｇａｖｅ               ｈｉｓ               ｂｌｅｓｓｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               Ｃｏｒｎｅｒｓｔｏｎｅ               Ｂｉｂｌｅ               Ｃｈｕｒｃｈ,               ｗｈｅｒｅ               Ｉ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｂａｐｔｉｓｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｓｔｏｒ.                Ｃｏｒｎｅｒｓｔｏｎｅ,               ｋｎｏｗｎ               ｔｏｄａｙ               ａｓ               Ｃｏｒｎｅｒｓｔｏｎｅ               ｔｈｅ               Ｃｈｕｒｃｈ,               ｉｓ               ａ               ｌａｒｇｅ               ｆｅｌｌｏｗｓｈｉｐ               ａｆｆｉｌｉａｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               Ｗｏｒｄ               ｏｆ               Ｆａｉｔｈ               Ｍｏｖｅｍｅｎｔ               ａｎｄ               ｓｐｅｃｉｆｉｃａｌｌｙ               Ｒｈｅｍａ               Ｍｉｎｉｓｔｒｉｅｓ               ｏｆ               Ｊｏｈａｎｎｅｓｂｕｒｇ,               Ｓｏｕｔｈ               Ａｆｒｉｃａ,               ｐａｓｔｏｒｅｄ               ｂｙ               Ｒａｙ               ＭｃＣａｕｌｅｙ. Ｉ'ｄ               ａｔｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｓｅｒｖｉｃｅ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｂｅｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ａ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ               ｉｎ               ｌａｔｅ               1992. Ｄｒｕｎｋ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｒｅｃａｌｌ,               Ｉ'ｄ               ｓａｔ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ               ｂｌｏｎｄｅ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｏｆ               ａｂｏｕｔ               55               ｗｈｏｍ               Ｉ               ｌａｔｅｒ               ｄｉｓｃｏｖｅｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ａ               ｓｕｃｃｅｓｓｆｕｌ               ａｃｔｒｅｓｓ               ｗｈｏ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅｉｇｈｔ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ               ｃａｒｅｅｒ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｘｔｉｅｓ               ｈａｄ               ａｐｐｅａｒｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｅｌｅｖｉｓｉｏｎ               ｃｕｌｔ               ｃｌａｓｓｉｃｓ               "Ｔｈｅ               Ａｖｅｎｇｅｒｓ"               ａｎｄ               "Ｔｈｅ               Ｐｒｉｓｏｎｅｒ". Ａｐａｒｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａｎ               ｅｌｄｅｒ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               Ｊｅｓｕｓ               Ｆｅｌｌｏｗｓｈｉｐ,               ｗｈｏ'ｄ               ｌａｉｄ               ｈａｎｄｓ               ｏｎ               ｍｅ               ａｔ               ａ               ｍｅｅｔｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｉｒｓ               ｉｎ               ｃｅｎｔｒａｌ               Ｌｏｎｄｏｎ,               ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｍｙ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｉａｎ               ｍｅｎｔｏｒ,               ｉｆ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｂｒｉｅｆ               ｐｅｒｉｏｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｉｍｅ. Ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ,               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｏｒ               ｓｐｅａｋ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｒ               ａｇａｉｎ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈｕｒｃｈ               ｆｏｒ               ｓｅｖｅｒａｌ               ｍｏｎｔｈｓ,               ａｎｄ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ａｓ               ａ               ｎｅｗ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅｒ,               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｍｏｖｅｄ               ｔｏ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｃｈｕｒｃｈ. Ｗｅ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｏｎ               ｍｉｓｓｉｎｇ               ｅａｃｈ               ｏｔｈｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｈｅ               ｄｉｅｄ               ｉｎ               Ｊｕｎｅ               2001. Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｆｏｒｇｏｔｔｅｎ               ｈｅｒ.                Ｄｅｓｃｅｎｔ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               Ｈｏｔｈｏｕｓｅ                Ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｅａｒｌｙ               ｐａｒｔ               ｏｆ               '94,               Ｉ               ｓｅｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｎａｌ               ｐｈａｓｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ＰＧＣＥ               (ＦＥ)               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｙ               ｏｆ               Ｇｒｅｅｎｗｉｃｈ               ｉｎ               Ｎｅｗ               Ｅｌｔｈａｍ,               ｉｎ               Ｓｏｕｔｈ               Ｅａｓｔ               Ｌｏｎｄｏｎ. Ｔｏ               ｒｅｃａｐ,               ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｗｏ               ｐｒｅｖｉｏｕｓ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｓ               ａｔ               ｐａｓｓｉｎｇ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｅｘａｍ,               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｔａｋｉｎｇ               ｐｌａｃｅ               ｉｎ               1986-'87               ａｔ               Ｈｏｍｅｒｔｏｎ               Ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ,               Ｃａｍｂｒｉｄｇｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｃｏｎｄ,               ｉｎ               1990,               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｏｒｍｅｒ               Ｗｅｓｔ               Ｌｏｎｄｏｎ               Ｉｎｓｔｉｔｕｔｅ               ｏｆ               Ｈｉｇｈｅｒ               Ｅｄｕｃａｔｉｏｎ,               ｂａｓｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｗｏ               ｃａｍｐｕｓｅｓ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｕｂｕｒｂｓ               ｏｆ               Ｉｓｌｅｗｏｒｔｈ               ａｎｄ               Ｅａｓｔ               Ｔｗｉｃｋｅｎｈａｍ. Ｔｈｅ               ｔｈｉｒｄ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｏｎｅ               Ｉ               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｍａｎａｇｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｍｐｌｅｔｅ,               ａｌｔｈｏｕｇｈ               ｎｏｔ               ｓｕｃｃｅｓｓｆｕｌｌｙ...ｍａｉｎｌｙ               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｈｏｗ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ａｕｔｈｏｒｉｔｙ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｌａｓｓｒｏｏｍ               ａｔ               Ｅｓｈｅｒ               Ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ｍｙ               Ｔｅａｃｈｉｎｇ               Ｐｒａｃｔｉｃｅ. Ｔｏ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｃｒｅｄｉｔ,               ｍｙ               ｔｕｔｏｒｓ               ａｔ               Ｇｒｅｅｎｗｉｃｈ               ｄｉｄ               ｏｆｆｅｒ               ｍｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｐｏｒｔｕｎｉｔｙ               ｏｆ               ｒｅｔａｋｉｎｇ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｈｅ               ＴＰ               ｃｏｍｐｏｎｅｎｔ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｃｈｏｓｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｕｒｎ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｄｏｗｎ. Ｉｆ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｕｐｓｅｔ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｉｎ               Ｓｅｐｔｅｍｂｅｒ               Ｉ               ｓｕｃｃｅｓｓｆｕｌｌｙ               ａｕｄｉｔｉｏｎｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｎｅｗｌｙ               ｆｏｒｍｅｄ               ｆｒｉｎｇｅ               ｔｈｅａｔｒｅ               ｇｒｏｕｐ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               Ｇｒｉｐ               ｂａｓｅｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｒｏｓｅ               ａｎｄ               Ｃｒｏｗｎ               ｐｕｂ               ｉｎ               Ｋｉｎｇｓｔｏｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏｌｅ               ｏｆ               Ｒｏｏｔｅ               ｉｎ               Ｈａｒｏｌｄ               Ｐｉｎｔｅｒ'ｓ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｋｎｏｗｎ               "Ｔｈｅ               Ｈｏｔｈｏｕｓｅ".                Ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｐｅｒｈａｐｓ               ｎｏｔ               ａｍｏｎｇ               Ｐｉｎｔｅｒ'ｓ               ｇｒｅａｔｅｓｔ               ｐｌａｙｓ,               "Ｔｈｅ               Ｈｏｔｈｏｕｓｅ"               ｉｓ               ａ               ｓｕｐｅｒｂｌｙ               ｗｒｉｔｔｅｎ               ｐｉｅｃｅ               ｎｏｎｅｔｈｅｌｅｓｓ,               ｗｉｔｈ               ｉｔｓ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｈｉｇｈ               ｐｏｅｔｉｃ               ｖｅｒｂａｌ               ｖｉｒｔｕｏｓｉｔｙ               ａｎｄ               ｉｎｖｅｎｔｉｖｅｎｅｓｓ               ａｎｄ               ｄａｒｋ               ｓｕｒｒｅａｌ               ｈｕｍｏｕｒ               ｌａｃｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｃｏｎｓｔａｎｔ               ｓｅｎｓｅ               ｏｆ               ｉｍｐｅｎｄｉｎｇ               ｖｉｏｌｅｎｃｅ. Ｗｒｉｔｔｅｎ               ｉｎ               1958,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｐｅｒｆｏｒｍｅｄ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               1980,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｄｉｒｅｃｔｅｄ               ｂｙ               Ｐｉｎｔｅｒ               ｈｉｍｓｅｌｆ               ｆｏｒ               Ｌｏｎｄｏｎ'ｓ               Ｈａｍｐｓｔｅａｄ               ａｎｄ               Ａｍｂａｓｓａｄｏｒ               Ｔｈｅａｔｒｅｓ.                Ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ａｕｄｉｔｉｏｎｓ               ｏｎｗａｒｄｓ,               Ｉ               ｇｅｌｌｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               Ａｍｅｒｉｃａｎ               ｄｉｒｅｃｔｏｒ               Ｔｏｍ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｍｏｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ａｕｄｉｔｉｏｎｓ               Ｉ'ｄ               ａｔｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｈａｄ               ｈｉｎｇｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ-ｈｏｎｏｕｒｅｄ               ｍｅｔｈｏｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ａｃｔｏｒ               ｐｅｒｆｏｒｍｉｎｇ               ａ               ｐｉｅｃｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｅｍｏｒｙ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ａ               ｐａｎｅｌ               ｏｆ               ｉｎｔｅｒｖｉｅｗｅｒｓ,               Ｔｏｍ               ｈａｄ               ｕｓ               ｒｅａｄｉｎｇ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｌａｙ               ｉｎ               ｓｍａｌｌ               ｇｒｏｕｐｓ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｅｎａｂｌｅｄ               ｕｓ               ｔｏ               ａｔｔａｉｎ               ａ               ｂａｓｉｃ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               ａｃｔｉｎｇ               ｒａｔｈｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｃｏｌｄｌｙ               ｒｅｃｉｔｉｎｇ. Ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ,               ｔｈｉｓ               ｉｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｗａｙ               ｔｏ               ａｕｄｉｔｉｏｎ.                Ｏｎｃｅ               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｒｔ               ｏｆ               Ｒｏｏｔｅ               ｗａｓ               ｍｉｎｅ,               Ｉ               ｄｅｖｏｔｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｓ               ｖｉｓｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               Ｒｏｏｔｅ,               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｍｐｏｕｓ               ｙｅｔ               ｄｅｒａｎｇｅｄ               ｄｉｒｅｃｔｏｒ               ｏｆ               ａｎ               ｕｎｎａｍｅｄ               Ｅｎｇｌｉｓｈ               ｐｓｙｃｈｉａｔｒｉｃ               ｈｏｓｐｉｔａｌ,               ｅｖｅｎ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｄｅｅｐｌｙ               ａｔ               ｏｄｄｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｕｓｕａｌ               ｈｉｇｈｌｙ               Ｍｅｔｈｏｄ-ｏｒｉｅｎｔｅｄ,               ｓｕｂｔｌｅ,               ｉｎｔｅｎｓｅ,               ｉｎｔｒｏｓｐｅｃｔｉｖｅ               ａｎｄ               ｙｅｔ               ｓｏｍｅｈｏｗ               ａｌｓｏ               ｅｍｏｔｉｏｎａｌｌｙ               ｖｅｈｅｍｅｎｔ               ａｐｐｒｏａｃｈ               ｔｏ               ａｃｔｉｎｇ. Ｉｎ               ｆａｃｔ,               ｈｉｓ               ｉｎｓｔｉｎｃｔｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｐｏｔ-ｏｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｒｏｄｕｃｔｉｏｎ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｃｅｉｖｅ               ｓｐｅｃｔａｃｕｌａｒ               ｒｅｖｉｅｗｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｃａｌ               ｐｒｅｓｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｎｔｅｒｎａｔｉｏｎａｌ               ｌｉｓｔｉｎｇｓ               ｍａｇａｚｉｎｅ               Ｔｉｍｅ               Ｏｕｔ,               ｉｎ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｍｙ               ｐｅｒｆｏｒｍａｎｃｅ               ｗａｓ               ｄｅｓｃｒｉｂｅｄ               ａｓ               "ｆｌａｗｌｅｓｓｌｙ               ａｃｃｕｒａｔｅ"               ａｎｄ               "ｌｉｔ               ｂｙ               ｆｌａｓｈｅｓ               ｏｆ               ｂｌａｃｋ               ｈｕｍｏｕｒ". Ａｎ               ａｍａｚｉｎｇ               ｔｒｉｕｍｐｈ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｈｕｍｂｌｅ               ｆｒｉｎｇｅ               ｓｈｏｗ.                Ａ               ｍａｊｏｒ               ａｇｅｎｔ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ               ｗａｙ               ｔｏ               ｅｘｐｒｅｓｓ               ｈｅｒ               ｉｎｔｅｒｅｓｔ               ｉｎ               ｍｅ,               ａｎｄ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｅｎｓｕｒｅ               ｍｙ               ｄｅｔａｉｌｓ               ｒｅａｃｈ               ｈｅｒ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ...ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｅｒ               ａｇａｉｎ,               ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｙ               ｄｕｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈａｂｂｙ               ｃｏｎｄｉｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ＣＶ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｐｕｒｓｕｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ               ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ. Ｗｈｙ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｆｕｌｌｙ               ｅｘｐｌｏｉｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｐｏｒｔｕｎｉｔｉｅｓ               ｏｆｆｅｒｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｕｎｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄ               ｓｕｃｃｅｓｓ               ｏｆ               "Ｔｈｅ               Ｈｏｔｈｏｕｓｅ"               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               ｇｏ               ｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               Ｗｅｓｔ               Ｅｎｄ               ｓｕｐｅｒｓｔａｒｄｏｍ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｍａｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｓｅｅｎ               ａｓ               ｍｉｎｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｔａｋｉｎｇ               ｒｅｍａｉｎｓ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｍｙｓｔｅｒｙ. Ｏｒ               ｄｏｅｓ               ｉｔ? Ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｄｅｆｅｎｃｅ               Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｓａｙ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｍｙ               ｒｅｃｅｎｔ               ｃｏｎｖｅｒｓｉｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｐｒｉｏｒｉｔｉｅｓ               ｈａｄ               ｓｈｉｆｔｅｄ               ｓｏ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｖｉｅｗｅｄ               ｗｏｒｌｄｌｙ               ｓｕｃｃｅｓｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｌｅｓｓ               ｒｅｌｉｓｈ               ｔｈａｎ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｄｏｎｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ. Ａｌｓｏ,               Ｉ               ｂａｄｌｙ               ｍｉｓｓｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｌａｘａｔｉｏｎ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｐｒｏｖｉｄｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｗｏｒｋ               ｏｎｓｔａｇｅ,               ｓｏ,               ｗｈｉｌｅ               Ｉ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｌｏｖｅｄ               ａｃｔｉｎｇ               ｉｔｓｅｌｆ,               ｔｈｅ               ｐｒｏｃｅｓｓ               ｏｆ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ａｎ               ａｃｔｏｒ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｃｏｍｅ               ｐｕｒｅ               ｔｏｒｔｕｒｅ. Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｏｘｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｓｉｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｎｏ               ｌｏｎｇｅｒ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ａｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｅｎｊｏｙ               ｓｏｃｉａｌ               ｓｉｔｕａｔｉｏｎｓ               ａｓ               ｏｔｈｅｒｓ               ｄｏ,               ｎｏｒ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｌａｘ. Ｔｈｉｓ               ｍａｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｗｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔａｔｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｅｎｄｏｒｐｈｉｎｓ,               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｄｙ'ｓ               ｎａｔｕｒａｌ               ｆｅｅｌ-ｇｏｏｄ               ｃｈｅｍｉｃａｌｓ,               ａｓ               ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ               ａ               ｂｅｌｉｅｆ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｃａｎ               ｂｅ               ｐｅｒｍａｎｅｎｔｌｙ               ｄｅｐｌｅｔｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｌｏｎｇ-ｔｅｒｍ               ａｂｕｓｅ               ｏｆ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ               ａｎｄ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｎａｒｃｏｔｉｃｓ. Ｆｏｒ               ｍｙ               ｐａｒｔ,               Ｉ'ｍ               ｎｏｔ               ｉｎ               ａｎｙ               ｐｏｓｉｔｉｏｎ               ｔｏ               ｅｉｔｈｅｒ               ｅｎｄｏｒｓｅ               ｎｏｒ               ｄｉｓｍｉｓｓ               ｉｔ.                Ｗｉｔｈｉｎ               ａ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｏｆ               "Ｔｈｅ               Ｈｏｔｈｏｕｓｅ"               ｒｅａｃｈｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｉｔｓ               ｔｗｏ               ｗｅｅｋ               ｒｕｎ,               Ｇｒｉｐ'ｓ               ａｒｔｉｓｔｉｃ               ｄｉｒｅｃｔｏｒ               Ｓｉｍｏｎ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｉｆ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｏ               ａｕｄｉｔｉｏｎ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｉｓ               ｕｐｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ｐｒｏｄｕｃｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               Ｊｉｍ               Ｃａｒｔｗｒｉｇｈｔ'ｓ               ｔｗｏ-ｈａｎｄｅｄ               ｐｌａｙ               "Ｔｗｏ". Ｎａｔｕｒａｌｌｙ               Ｉ               ｓａｉｄ               ｙｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｏ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ａ               ｃｕｒｓｏｒｙ               ａｕｄｉｔｉｏｎ,               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｃａｓｔ               ａｓ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｌｅ               ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒｓ               ｏｐｐｏｓｉｔｅ               ａ               ｂｒｉｌｌｉａｎｔ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ａｃｔｒｅｓｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               Ｌｉｖｅｒｐｏｏｌ,               Ｊｅａｎ,               ｗｈｏ               ｐｌａｙｅｄ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｅｍａｌｅ. Ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｕｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｏｕｓｅｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｏ               ｐａｃｋｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｉｔｔｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔａｇｅ               ａｔ               ｏｕｒ               ｆｅｅｔ,               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｅｘｐｅｒｉｅｎｃｅｄ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｌｏｎｄｏｎ               ｆｒｉｎｇｅ. Ｙｅｔ,               ａｓ               ｍｕｃｈ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｌｏｖｅｄ               ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               Ｓｉｍｏｎ               ａｎｄ               Ｊｅａｎ,               Ｉ               ｄｒｅａｄｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｅａｃｈ               ｐｅｒｆｏｒｍａｎｃｅ,               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｓｅｅ               ｍｅ               ｍａｋｅ               ｍｙ               ｅｘｃｕｓｅｓ               ａｓ               ｓｏｏｎ               ａｓ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｓｏ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｃａｕｓｉｎｇ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ａｎｙ               ｇｒｅａｔ               ｏｆｆｅｎｃｅ               ｔｏ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ.                Ｒｅｌｅａｓｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｗｈａｔ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｃｏｍｅ               ａ               ｔｏｒｔｕｒｏｕｓ               ｄｕｎｇｅｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｓｏｂｒｉｅｔｙ               ｃａｍｅ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａｔｔｅｎｄｉｎｇ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｕｎｒｅｌａｔｅｄ               ｆｕｎｃｔｉｏｎ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｒｏｓｅ               ａｎｄ               Ｃｒｏｗｎ               ａ               ｄａｙ               ｏｒ               ｓｏ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｆｉｎａｌ               ｐｅｒｆｏｒｍａｎｃｅ               ｉｎ               "Ｔｗｏ",               ｗｈｅｎ               ａ               ｇｕｙ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｍｅｔ               ｏｆｆｅｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｕｙ               ｍｅ               ａ               ｄｒｉｎｋ               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｇｌａｓｓ               ｏｆ               ｗｉｎｅ. Ａｐａｒｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｉｍｅ               ａｔ               ｍｙ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ'               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｗｅｅｋｓ               ｅａｒｌｉｅｒ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｔｏｏｋ               ａ               ｓｗｉｇ               ｏｆ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔ               ｗａｓ               ｗａｔｅｒ               ｂｕｔ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｖｏｄｋａ               ｏｒ               ｇｉｎ,               ｔｈｉｓ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ａｌｃｏｈｏｌ               ｔｏ               ｐａｓｓ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｐｓ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               Ｊａｎｕａｒｙ               '93.                Ｔｈｉｓ               ｓｉｎｇｌｅ               ｇｌａｓｓ               ｏｆ               ｗｉｎｅ               ｍａｄｅ               ｍｅ               ｆｅｅｌ               ａｍａｚｉｎｇ,               ｄｏｕｂｌｙ               ｓｏ               ｇｉｖｅｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｕｒｉｔｙ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｓｙｓｔｅｍ. Ｉ               ｃｙｃｌｅｄ               ｈｏｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｓｔａｔｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｏｔａｌ               ｒａｐｔｕｒｅ,               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｉｎ               ｍｏｎｔｈｓ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｄｏ               ａｎｙｔｈｉｎｇ. Ｏｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｆｅｗ               ｗｅｅｋ               ｍｙ               ｄｒｉｎｋｉｎｇ               ｉｎｃｒｅａｓｅｄ,               ｒｅａｃｈｉｎｇ               ａ               ｃｌｉｍａｘ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｐｕｂ               ｉｎ               Ｔｗｉｃｋｅｎｈａｍ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               Ｉ               ｍｅｔ               ａｎ               ｏｌｄ               ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｙ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ               ｗｈｏ'ｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｆｉｎｉｓｈｅｄ               ａ               ｃｏｕｒｓｅ               ａｔ               Ｓｔ               Ｍａｒｙ'ｓ               Ｕｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｙ               Ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ               ｉｎ               ｎｅａｒｂｙ               Ｓｔｒａｗｂｅｒｒｙ               Ｈｉｌｌ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               Ｉ               ｄｒａｎｋ               ａｎｄ               ｓｍｏｋｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｓｔｕｐｏｒ.                Ｃｙｃｌｉｎｇ               ｈｏｍｅ               ａｆｔｅｒｗａｒｄｓ,               Ｉ               ｔｏｏｋ               ａ               ｂｅｎｄ               ｎｅａｒ               Ｈａｍｐｔｏｎ               Ｗｉｃｋ               ａｎｄ               ｃａｍｅ               ｏｆｆ               ｍｙ               ｂｉｋｅ,               ｓｔｒｉｋｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ               ａｇａｉｎｓｔ               ａ               ｂｕｓ               ｓｈｅｌｔｅｒ. Ｉ               ｓｔａｙｅｄ               ｆｌａｔ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｂａｃｋ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ａｂｊｅｃｔ               ａｎｄ               ｓｔｉｎｋｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ｄｒｉｎｋ               -Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ'ｖｅ               ｓｗｏｒｎ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ａ               ｓｈａｄｏｗｙ               ｆｉｇｕｒｅ               ｒｕｎｎｉｎｇ               ｔｏｗａｒｄｓ               ｍｅ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｌａｙ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｒｋ               -               ｂｕｔ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               ｌｏｎｇ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｓｈａｋｉｌｙ               ｒｅｓｕｍｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｊｏｕｒｎｅｙ               ｈｏｍｅ. Ｈｏｗｅｖｅｒ,               ｗｅｅｋｓ               ｏｆ               ｃｏｎｔｒｏｌｌｅｄ               ｄｒｉｎｋｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ｏｎｅ               ｍａｓｓｉｖｅ               ｂｉｎｇｅ,               ｐｏｓｓｉｂｌｙ               ｃｏｍｂｉｎｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｌｌ               ｅｆｆｅｃｔｓ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｖｉｏｌｅｎｔ               ｂｌｏｗ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅａｄ,               ｒｅｓｕｌｔｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｂｅｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ｉｌｌ               ａｎｄ               ｖｉｒｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｉｎｃａｐａｃｉｔａｔｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｗｈａｔ               ｍｉｇｈｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａｓ               ｌｏｎｇ               ａｓ               ａ               ｆｏｒｔｎｉｇｈｔ. Ｔｉｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ｔｈｉｓ               ａｗｆｕｌ               ｐｅｒｉｏｄ               Ｉ'ｄ               ａｗａｋｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ａ               ｆｅｖｅｒｉｓｈ               ｓｅｍｉ-ｓｌｅｅｐ,               ｄｉｚｚｙ,               ｆａｉｎｔ               ａｎｄ               ｎａｕｓｅｏｕｓ,               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｆａｃｅ               ａ               ｄｅａｔｈｌｙ               ｙｅｌｌｏｗｙ               ｐａｌｅ,               ｂｕｔ               ｅａｃｈ               ｔｉｍｅ               ａ               ｓｉｎｇｌｅ               ｆｕｒｔｈｅｒ               ｓｅｃｏｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｃｏｎｓｃｉｏｕｓｎｅｓｓ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｂｅｙｏｎｄ               ｍｅ               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｔｈｅ               Ｌｏｒｄ               ｂｒｅａｔｈｉｎｇ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｅｒｒｏｒ               ｏｆ               ｄｙｉｎｇ               ｓｕｂｓｉｄｅｄ. Ａｌｌ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｄｏ               ｗａｓ               ｌｉｅ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ,               ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ,               ｐｒａｙｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎ               ｔｏ               ｎｏｒｍａｌｉｔｙ...ａｎｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｃａｍｅ,               Ｉ               ｄｅｔｅｒｍｉｎｅｄ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｄｒｉｎｋ               ａｇａｉｎ               ａｓ               ｌｏｎｇ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｌｉｖｅｄ. Ｂｕｔ               ｗｅ               ｓｗｉｆｔｌｙ               ｆｏｒｇｅｔ               ｏｕｒ               ｓｏｊｏｕｒｎｓ               ｉｎ               Ｈｅｌｌ...

Image of twickenham train station

twickenham train station

twickenham train station Image 1

twickenham train station

twickenham train station Image 2

twickenham train station

twickenham train station Image 3

twickenham train station

twickenham train station Image 4

twickenham train station

twickenham train station Image 5

Related blog with twickenham train station

1. A Day at Twickenham

   allsportnow.wordpress.com/   02/20/2011

   ...Journey…….the Sardine like conditions were repeated on the train out of Twickenham station and never have I seen so many line up to get onto a train. The final target...

2. Cricketers and their train stations

   leftarmchinaman.blogspot.com/   08/20/2008

   ... of the England cricket team and stations on the London Underground. At long last, here...Alastair Cook Nearest tube stop to Twickenham. Nearing perfection, but not quite there...

3. Twickenham 7s report

   dangerineurope.blogspot.com/   06/04/2007

   ...still tell if they play rubbish! We got home quite late, as the wondrous TFL(transport for London) failed to put on any extra trains from Twickenham. Cold, wet and hungry.

4. Went to Twickenham on Saturday

   janandbonniesblog.blogspot.com/   03/01/2010

   ...together as we all inched our way towards either the town centre or the train station. Our younger Son met us at Southampton station and drove us home, it...

5. Before sunrise – Twickenham Station lights up

   antmusic.wordpress.com/   10/13/2011

   Ok, it’s early. But there are still some of us up to see the Moon and catch a train. Share this: Share Facebook Twitter Like this: Like Be the first to like this post.

6. Twickenham, Premiership Final

   stadiumsandcities.wordpress.com/   05/27/2012

   ...the season, might favour Harlequins as they spent the week training in the heat of the middle east, courtesy of sponsors Emirates, no doubt...

7. The Last Train to Clarksville - or Anywhere...

   jimgreenhalf.blogspot.com/   02/14/2011

   .... Passengers who had missed trains were directed to approach station staff for help. No one met us off the train. About 50 of us...

8. Twickenham Six Nations

   kiwisinthebasement.blogspot.com/   02/12/2007

   ... anywhere. The train stopped at the last 5 stations to waiting fans...once we arrived at Twickenham we followed the...

9. A Child's-Eye View

   ageofuncertainty.blogspot.com/   09/14/2012

   ...street, mallard ducks in Bushy Park and a blurred shot of a train entering Twickenham station? Thank God there were no digital cameras in 1979. If I'd...

10. St. Pancras Station

    amomentintime-craftycooper.blogspot.com/   12/13/2010

    ... area of the Station This Statue is ...I was there - Emily's train arrived early!! Shame...10. Chatham,11. Nottingham, 12. Twickenham, 13. Woodbridge. 14. Red House...

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