Momo had risen to her feet. ″Oh,″ she exclaimed, ″to think of all those poor flowers, all that dead time...″
Yes, the wall they're erecting around this house is built of dead time.
There's still enough open sky above for me to send people their time in good condition,
but once that pall of smoke closes over our heads, every hour I send them will be contaminated with the time-thieves' poison.
When they absorb it, it'll make them ill.″ Momo stared at the professor uncomprehendingly. ″What kind of illness is it?″ she asked in a low voice.
A fatal illness, though you scarcely notice it at first. One day, you don't feel like doing anything.
Nothing interests you, everything bores you. Far from wearing off, your boredom persists and gets worse, day by day and week by week.
You feel more and more bad-tempered, more and more empty inside, more and more dissatisfied with yourself and the world in general.
Then even that feeling wears off, and you don't feel anything any more. You become completely indifferent to what goes on around you.
Joy and sorrow, anger and excitement are things of the past.
You forget how to laugh and cry - you're cold inside and incapable of loving anything or anyone.
Once you reach that stage, the disease is incurable. There's no going back.
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