So I'm walking along one day, and this asshole stops me and asks me if I'm all right. He says I got a look. He'd seen a man with that same look once and had ignored it, and that man had jumped out a nine-story window. You know the reconstruction involved in a death like that? This business gets under your skin, it's like a fucking virus. They can even see it on your face, smell it on you.
What the hell is this place, this music? Since when did you listen to the Classics IV? What the hell did you do here? Who the hell are you?
So many questions. Why couldn't you ask 'em when I was still alive? It's okay, I couldn't answer most of them anyway, unlike now. Now I'm a fucking prophet.
All right.
Think I'm kiddin,' buddy boy? That's one of the perks of being dead: you know what happens after you die – and you know the meaning of life.
That seems fairly useless.
Yeah, I know – life is wasted on the living.
Could've told me you were proud of me.
Never around for me to tell, which is exactly what I was proud of you for. Therein lies your Catch-22.
So what's the meaning of life?
You really wanna know?
I don't know. Will it fuck me up if I do?
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