Preface

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ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ:

Why I wrote this book? 

This story came to me in the fall of two thousand twenty-two while I was listening to missile explosions that were not really welcomed, I must say. This experience has been life and mind changing, which induced me to think more about the shortness of life – Seneca would be satisfied. 

As a growing teenager, and later young adult, there was actually only one thing that I was afraid of seriously – not counting stupid screamers or some inessential moments of fright. The thing was, the fourth enemy by Don Juan: the Old Age and Death itself.

There were moments when I could not fall asleep for hours, literally trembling out of fear, cold, and panic due to realizing that I was mortal, and my mortality was much delicate than I expected.   

The experience narrated above led me to meditate on this eerie topic again. This story was also one of the paths I had to tramp through, for stories had always been a way of experiencing something that is on my mind. 

Do not worry. 

I have had no intention to write this story about some suicidal young boy, who was about to cut his wrists open and rely on good luck. Vice versa, the whole story is soaked with hope, with reality, its real awful sides and, of course, blissful moments that it might bring to a human being.

The main character of this story is not me. There is no intention to do venting just for the sake of venting. This is art, and art sometimes takes features from the real word and no more – at least, this is my credo.  

I have the answer now, as well as the main character of my story. You will see it at the end of the story if you push your way through it as well. Perhaps, we might have different results; perhaps, these outcomes will not be even close – let it be this way, for my truth is as legitimate as your truth. 

Let your days be merry and life untroubled. 

Hope to see you on the other side. 


Truly Yours, 

Wilso.

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