“I believe this is the reason why so few of us exist beyond the hundred-fiftieth year of our making. Over time, the blood palls. Feeding oneself becomes, first, a chore; then an agony; finally, for some--for most--a hell. Anything becomes preferable to the anguish of taking one more sup, so one fasts. And one dies. Those who survive this crisis of sensibility--those who evolve--are...formidable. Formidable. I am two hundred forty-seven years undead. Before my making, I lived 15 years in Philadel...phia, the son of a textile merchant. I bear the face and form of a boy in the first beauty of his manhood, as perfect as the night she created me. My mother named me Evelyn James Farrington. My colleagues know me as Jim Faring. I am a painter. I do badly, which is all I expect. The others who work and live in this building--they take interest in my efforts, squandering hours of their short lifetimes to show me thus of perspective, this trick of capturing the light and this other thing regarding shadows.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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