Status Updates From A Morte de Ivan Ilitch e Ou...

Criminology in frequent strides undertakes the deliberate quest of traditionally - and barbarically - framing wrongdoers as subhuman creatures born to sin and breathe suffering onto society’s lungs; their actual actions, the mass-journalized nature of their heists and manslaughter, their body language that could have hinted at an offense, the superficial intricacies fixatedly analyzed rather than society itself.

After The Ball is ravishingly romantic since the starting steps, which establishes a cunning illusion for what would inevitably unfold, beauty leading beholders to their existential unbecoming like an oceanic voyage sailing in a straight line, spotting magical sights and sensorial stimulation but at the spectre-called encore toppling over the World’s Edge like an ancient pre-Aristotle adventure; love and loathing.

The frontlining novella forces the reader, far and wide across fields of grass that are greener or not as green notwithstanding, to show candor as they observe life from the perspective of nearing death. I, myself, have resorted to illness for a type of attention without conditions; love that means care, manifesting my recovery whilst not remembering the expectations and disappointments. For me, that is true love.