Since everyone is talking about the looming doomsday anyway, if I could, I would fill my last days with endless conversations — meaningful, gibberish, small talk, profound, I welcome them all. Yes, it departs from my usual repertoire of play-run-play-til-I-die, but the art of conversation holds within it a healing power.

Isn’t it great that as a species, we have long carried the tradition of storytelling without actually giving it any thought? That in bouts, we can actually agree to disagree? That we never tire of recounting old memories, laughing at them as if they happened yesterday?

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