When I'm at my wit's end and want to shed life like a python skin, step out of the Martyr's shoes I'm in, I ask why, why. Cornered by the sadness, the uselessness, the corrosion of life That pushes us all down, the wonderful and the wretched alike; The universe doesn't care. It's at that point that I find my friend, bitter doctor Gregory House. He of the pill popping hands, the limp leg graced by a Sherlock cane, the detective's disease intuition. He of the acerbic wit which occasionally dribbles onto helpless patients. He has his own outlook, withered, twisted and isolated by Life and it's attendent mistresses, made of flesh and psyche. We share bitter biting views and sip lemon tea and black coffee. He says Everybody lies and I say Everybody cries And dies -- as he certainly knows. Now I don't feel alone. I know my darkness is personified by this wonderful, horrible, happily miserable doctor. We walk down the corridor together quoting Emerson and singing Emerson Lake and Palmer, An inch away from the embalmer, both of us, as we drop a bag of burning dogshit at death's door.