The Producer comes over and says, "Great job cast, plays over." Plays over? Wasn't that just a Dress Rehersal?
As close ones, friends you hung out with, women you dated and larger than life people die, for me, it is a gradual awareness (resisted): I am not getting out of this world alive. There is a very true death sentence on my head (Yet some corner of brain thinks there is a way out. Movie influence.)
"But wait..." I want to say, 'Let me talk to your supervisor, do you know who I am?' He doesn't and he doesn't care. The Reaper has a job to do. "Shame!" I scream at him. "How can you do this work? I yell, 'what is your excuse, someone has to do it? What about death takes a holiday...for a few centuries.' Impertinent devil, never acknowledges me.
And I read this morning news that a nine year old girl died on her birthday, died in a freak accident falling off her bike. I am furious. 'You call this work! I guess you have to have no heart." That stopped him. Which, honestly, scared me. He walked over. He just stared without any reaction. He said with a little smile, "You are just dust: behave like it."
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