The person I want to see lives in an area where the chances of me running into him at a bank, coffee shop, or local bowling alley are absurdly impossible.

The improbability is such that I no longer have to look up when I’m reading on the subway. I don’t have to scan the faces of the strangers that walk into, around, and through me as I cross fourteenth street.

I believe this lends itself to my inability to have spiritual thoughts. I think there was a time when I could entertain nature like the wind through the windows as some kind of message of all-knowing omnipotence.

But the truth is I’ve lost all hope, and it’s not that my book is so interesting — there’s just no need to look up.

I’m not going to see him, am I?
Nope.
Not until I plan it.
Yes.
What happens if you live your life without surprises?
You die.
Don’t you die anyway?
Nope.
Bullshit. You’re saying if I get surprised more I’ll live forever?
Yes.
Fuck off.
You, fuck off.
That’s the secret to life?
That’s what makes us live forever.