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Arch Intern Med. 2004;164:1269-1272.

	Since this article does not have an abstract, we have provided the first 150 words of the full text and any section headings.

Slowly stroking his bushy mustache, he pondered his likeness in the large, ornately framed oil painting on the office wall. It was like looking in an ancient mirror. Singer Sargent had done an admirable job, he thought, an opinion shared at the time by his Hopkins' colleagues who had posed alongside him in the London studio. Sadly, all were long gone. The arctic loneliness of his great age engulfed him. He felt displaced into an unfamiliar and mystifying world, adrift in time, like a character in a Verne or Wells novel. What in God's name am I doing here now? he wondered. Have I somehow escaped mortality? Is this an aberration of my mind? A dream? A nightmare? Is this the afterlife?

Though it was a sunny April morning, he felt chilled in his heavy tweed suit and vest. The familiar office, worn rugs, faded photographs of colleagues and . . . [Full Text of this Article]

Leslie G. Cohen, MD
11 Robeson St
Jamaica Plain, MA 02130
(e-mail: lgcohen33@hotmail.com)