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I have been told that when you are dying of thirst, you crave salt--not water, but salt. Your last efforts are spent seeking desperately that very thing which will hasten your end. So it is, I fear, with all of our terrible thirsts. The alcoholic, sick and frightened to death of his thirst, finds a temporary peace only in one more day and one more night of stupor. The adulterer, so very ashamed and so strangely alone, finds a momentary solace only in the forgetfulness of just one more forbidden embrace.

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