a rabid virus

[…] restaurants that squeeze in as many tables as possible against the walls of the old town; it gets zooey, with tourists trying to get past the fuming waiters trying to deliver food to their waiting diners.

Our son is slain, let us riot in battle; my eager love for him driveth me to my death, that I may not be left outliving my dear child.

J. W., age 24, paramaniac was a patient in 1892, when I was a physician at the Insane hospital.