Now, however, time (having no further use for me) is running out.  I will soon be thirty-one years old.  Perhaps.  If my crumbling, over-used body permits.  But I have no hope of saving my life, nor can I count on having even a thousand nights and a night.  I must work fast, faster than Scheherazade, if I am to end up meaning - yes, meaning- something.  I admit it: above all things, I fear absurdity.