The Doctor owned many things, and he valued these things. His automobile, for example, was a late-model European sedan that was coveted both by his colleagues and strangers he drove past them on the street. The Doctor understood that few were able to afford such a car, and that made him feel grateful. His home was modest, but located in a desirable area, one where the standard of living vastly exceeded the norm. Though the Doctor had no family with which he could share his home, he looked forward to returning there every evening after leaving the hospital where he worked. It was a house of many comforts; a relaxing island amidst the chaos that pocked the Doctor’s life.
Creature comforts were hardly in short supply, as The Doctor earned a generous wage and had little need for money. Yet among the sea of familiarity he had forged, The Doctor suffered with that which every man possesses; he could not sleep.
This evening, as you drift off to sleep, think of The Doctor. As the embrace of slumber washes over you and waking consciousness is blotted out, take note of his life.
Poor, sorry bastard.
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