We are all going to die someday. For the lucky few of us it'll be nice and fast. But for most of us it'll be just as long and slow and painful as a conversation with you.
Honestly, it was like death and I had a staring match and, well, death blinked. All of you know I'm not one to toot my own horn, but...
— Hey, what are you doing Frankeinstein?
— Photo journal for my photography class.
— Terrific. Could I see your camera? Hmm. Very interesting. Oh, there's film in it.
— Hey! All my pictures were in there! Dead patient with fancy shirt, dead patient without fancy shirt, me in fancy shirt being yelled at by angry family.
But still, you might be better served, and this is a crazy notion, if you could stop worrying so much about who does and doesn't notice you. Even for a second.
I swear, that young man has killed so many people, I'm starting to think he just might be a government agent.
Bob, now when the dark prince does finally call you home, please... Promise me that you'll donate your body to science. And I don't... mean medical science, I mean NASA. Because when those buzz-cuts have all but given up on trying to figure out... Just exactly what a black hole is, and they get one look at that space where your heart was supposed to be... well by-gum, you know they're just gonna say: «Awwww, shucks! hat's what it is!»
Do you actually listen to yourself when you speak, or do you find you drift in and out?
Enjoy this while you can, Bobby. If your evil genie does grant your wish, and I disappear, the only person you'll have left to contend with will be yourself. And when you really get to know that person, dear God, you'll scream so loud, Satan will want to rip up the contract you signed so he can get some sleep.
