The theatre lurched to a stop. A brightly lipsticked woman in a pastel skirt, and a grubby, unshaven youth in a Charon hoodie cut across my vision of the screen. “Modern times,” to quote Chaplin. The day of the remaining days. I always tell my students, do you know, in the history of our species, there are far more dead than there are living? Do you realize that by the very act of sitting here, listening, breathing, yawning, just exactly how rare you are? Nine billion, and rare. They blink; they stare into their digitized hands; they google to see who this lunatic is and whether there’s another section of the course they can take. Maybe a half dozen look up with fresh attention; I give them my transfer for the incubus and insert some change for the succubus. What else can I do? They’re on
