I don’t really know what to say, I tell him. Well, I do, but I don’t want to write it down.
We could obliterate them into a million zillion pieces, he answers. Or turn them into cartoon characters that we can erase, and then crumple up and throw away.
I want to fly amidst the stars I want to fall splat on the ground, I return. This could go on forever. Fat and wore cheap suits. There, how’s that for something?
He rolls his eyes. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
An excellent question, I reply. But unfortunately there is a party conference going on.
Yes, he says. And no one is winning.