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8 The old man leaned his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. "Harry, the self-absorption of the damned leads them to be trapped by their own pasts, condemned to reliving over and over the same experiences whose lessons they failed to learn. You can see this by the way they eagerly tell their tales to any who will listen, and it's reflected in the repetitive nature of their sufferings." "Sisyphus and his stone." "Precisely." "How is this relevant?" Harry was starting to guess, and wasn't sure he liked the sound of this. "You already know." The old man shoved two sheets of paper across the table at him and extended the pen in his direction. "Sign the bottom of the contract. Don't bother with a date--that's meaningless." Harry glanced over the contract. Translated from legalese, it essentially stated that he would return to the day when everything started to fall apart, and would keep repeating from there until he got it right. See attached list of conditions to fulfill. He looked at the second piece of paper. There was the list he'd dictated to the old man:
"Harry, it's not a good idea to make one of your conditions so dependent upon another human being." He seemed genuinely worried. "You may want to bury the hatchet: she may prefer using it on you." "That's a risk I'll have to take," Harry said. "You understand the possible consequences?" Harry contemplated an eternity of reliving the past year over and over. Yes, that would be hell, indeed--stuck in the very place he'd committed suicide-by-cop to get out of. But this was something he had to do. "I understand." The old man sighed. "Sign, then." Harry paused. "Isn't this supposed to be in blood?"
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