Omnes adsint, quamvis dementi, quamvis nefasti.

The Morbid Socialite found a place in the classroom to sit and began to pull notes from their gladstone bag. Tularemia slept at the brim of his hat, little chest rising and falling rapidly for sleep, as was expected of small animals with small lungs. The Socialite was careful not to disturb her as he set his hat aside and reviewed two sets of study materials. He only half paid attention to the notes, though, as his fingers lingered close to his lips, as if to hold a feeling there and savor it. His smile was wide, a light blush to his cheeks, and he gave off the air of someone truly enamored with life.

What could possibly have someone with 'morbid' in their title in such a giddy mood?