You're breathing in centuries of destroyed solar systems. Collapsed red giants, magnetic comets, and five million metric tons of stardust are filling up every misshapen corner of your lungs. You may have cancer. We don't know. We haven't tested you for it. We can't get close enough to you, you keep threatening to use that sharpened spork in your hands. Henry, your friend from the accounting department, is calling the cops. You could be nice enough to whisper "Fuck you", instead of yelling it out like a maniac. We don't have time for this. YOU don't have time for this. Tranquillise him.