Oh, I'm of the sickly few. Nothing can ever, possibly just be good and my sunsets are promptly punctuated with exponentially exhausting explosions. The dawns are massive mushroom clouds thunderously silent, seeping over my twinkling twilight sky.
Oh, I'm of the sickly few. Danger lustfully lurks around every cold corner where a ghastly ghost of Christmas past ominously awaits my doubtful dreaded return. I can't confine cursed fears into the cold corner closet.
Oh, I'm of the sickly few, and that's going to change.