Four months. One third of a year. One-hundred eighteen days since my father went to sleep and didn't wake up again. Two-thousand eight-hundred thirty-two hours since my dad ended a twenty-one year battle with chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder and shuffled off this mortal coil for destinations unknown. One-hundred sixty-nine thousand nine-
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I'm glad that the historic sites are being preserved, but not sure what's supposed to be so damn scary about woefully misunderstood people, and the wretched conditions they were kept in. :-/
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