A partir de determinada altura, o homem começa a passar em revista as razões pelas quais continua onde já está? Ou a ponderar motivos para mudar? Ou a tentar evitar chegar a um ponto onde o que lhe vem mais vezes à ideia é que "é tão triste ter 70 anos e já não poder foder raparigas de 23"? Ou nem por isso?
"Around the grave in the rundown cemetery were a few of his former advertising colleagues from New York, who recalled his energy and originality and told his daughter, Nancy, what a pleasure it had been to work with him. There were also people who'd driven up from Starfish Beach, the residential retirement village at the Jersey Shore where he'd been living since Thanksgiving of 2001 — the elderly to whom only recently he'd been giving art classes.
(...)
In a matter of minutes, everybody had walked away — wearily and tearfully walked away from our species' least favorite activity — and he was left behind. Of course, as when anyone dies, though many were grief-stricken, others remained unperturbed, or found themselves relieved, or, for reasons good or bad, were genuinely pleased."
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