Yesterday evening I was walking to this thing called a Death Cafe, recently featured in the Times.  The reporter summed up the salon as follows: “Offshoots of the “café mortel” movement that emerged in Switzerland and France about 10 years ago, these are not grief support groups or end-of-life planning sessions, but rather casual forums for people who want to bat around philosophical thoughts. What is death like? Why do we fear it? How do our views of death inform the way we live?”  I was curious but slightly annoyed that it was going to take place in an IHOP (IHOP in Manhattan?!) when I exited my office.  And then, right outside, was the silent scene of an obviously terrible motorcycle accident.  The bike lay in pieces on the road, and there was a body covered in a white sheet smack in the center of the intersection.  Gawkers lined the streets––policemen were just standing idly as well, because what could they do at that point?––and I stopped and stared for a moment and then continued on toward Death Cafe, where my table-mates included a woman who believes in Singularity (ooookay) and a gay Buddhist with the words “not nothing” tattooed to his forearm.

Good morning to you.

Wakey wakey.

Wakey wakey.

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