February 10th was my father's birthday. He would be, let's see, 1, 2, 3, 4, 56 years old. Not so old. A few days ago, the pangs of what can only be described as the devil's fingernails coming up to scratch my back while I slept, started to find their way into the recesses of my thoughts, and emotions, and I didn't know. Why that is. And then I did. And now, another birthday has come and gone. If there's a reason for staying sober out there, then this is one of them, even though it is exceedingly difficult on a day like that. Probably the most. I'll let Chopin tell you the rest:
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