After he woke up from the thunderstrike, he cut his neck with a knife. He shot his head with a shotgun. He hanged himself with the thickest rope. He crashed his car to a tree. Still, he lived. As an immortal man, he despised the creeping loneliness he always felt. He pleasured himself as he sought several affairs, but they always died and left him to his fear. He never forgot those beautiful women he cared for, but never loved. He built them a garden—one flower for each woman—and he took care of it like his own ceremonial for a nurtured memory. He hoped though that they could remember him.
WORD COUNT: 112
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