In your messhall, being mocked by life.

[whoooosshh]

*The messhall is tonight the host of quite a spectacular spectacle. Upon a table stands an elaborate cake, shaped like a black coffin (dark chocolate) being draped in a red, torn sheet (marzipan) and adorned with sixtyone majestic black candles and marzipan-decorations shaped like broken hearts (tastes like strawberries). Next to it lies a written

Comments

[is_my_copilot]

Sixty one? . . . not bad.

[whoooosshh]

... Thank you. Not that I can take all the credit.

[is_my_copilot]

Just another fourty-two until you beat me. And no one can take all the credit for their longevity. Anti-aging treatments, proper maintenance, not being dropped out a twelfth-story window by their parents as an infant - most people have at least one person to thank for their not being dead at an early age.

[whoooosshh]

... You're a hundred and three?

[is_my_copilot]

That's right. I'm not human - with adequate maintenance, I'll live until something kills me.

[whoooosshh]

... I suppose we have something in common then.