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