I'm visiting my dad on his death bed because Moderna's cancer cure studies suddenly only have space in a cohort he doesn't qualify for. We waited for months to be told the doors are closed.
Some other billionaire likely has no problem finding and funding the medical agencies necessary to look at the research and do the study independently.
But now a year's worth of fighting is meeting doctors who can only shrug.
I have no clue and please RT (if possible). mRNA-4157. Pancreatic.
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I have no idea why folk are trying to get 100GB of traffic out of my humble placeholder web pages. Really nasty web assault.
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If you want to have an inch of the suffering of the people of Gaza and Palestine, get bitten by bedbugs. Or similarly, get addicted to opiates and then not have methodone. The bewildering itchiness of chicken pox. The all-consuming rage of being bullied to the edge of awareness.
I can't easily describe what it is like to black out since I thought it was only possible due to intoxication. But now, I know. And I know again. And again. I'm praying for the power to finally resist being consumed by its potent flame, the maddening of nowhere to escape to. The violence of being a vehicle for a place where something can be torn apart or shorn.
THAT is an ultimate violence. I'm aghast, but I'm trying to no longer be ghastly as a result of these inflictions. I'm praying for the cohesion I'd need.
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