“Statistically, we're all dead,” he says,
puffing on a Camel Light with all the fervor and aplomb
that a statement so definitive surely deserves. “That's why
I don't watch television anymore, don't
stand in the back of auditoriums
and clap lightly. In the end,
it doesn't matter, so why not
be the one on stage, dancing
while the world collapses?” I couldn't
argue with his logic, of course, so
I grabbed his cigarette suavely
and snuffed it out on his arm, watching
as his stunned eyes rejected
any thought of explaining my action:
statistically, he probably wouldn't understand, anyway.
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