"For what reason wouldn't we be able to get an opportunity?" I ask Albert.
"A possibility at what?" He's glancing near, taking photos of the field and the lines.
"A possibility at one more opportunity," I say. "For what reason wouldn't we be able to thump on Death's entryway and ask or trade or arm-wrestle or have a gazing challenge for the opportunity to continue to live? I'd even need to battle for the opportunity to choose how I pass on. I'd go in my rest." And I would simply rest after I lived valiantly, as the sort of individual somebody would need to fold their arm over, who might possibly snuggle against my jawline or shoulder, and continue forever about the fact that we were so glad to be bursting at the seams with one another undeniably.
Albert brings down his telephone and loo
