Because it's his bad luck to be the best.
I expect most psychiatrists have a patient or two they'd like to refer to me.
You know how cats do. They hide to die. Dogs come home.
The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted.
But the face on the pillow, rosy in the firelight, is certainly that of Clarice Starling, and she sleeps deeply, sweetly, in the silence of the lambs.
He was numb except for dreading the loss of numbness.