I’m sitting with a friend in the Lansdale Café talking about the pointlessness of life when we’re interrupted by muttering in a dark corner.
“If you’re not dead, you’re not done,” says an old man holding his holy grail of hot coffee.
Heads turn and nod in agreement. After a moment, my friend and I resume our conversation.
A few minutes later, the old man shouts, “Like I said”—then in a normal tone he repeats his philosophy—“if you’re not dead, you’re not done.”
Heads turn and nod in agreement. My friend and I decide to talk about baseball.
“If you’re not dead, you’re not done,” says an old man holding his holy grail of hot coffee.
Heads turn and nod in agreement. After a moment, my friend and I resume our conversation.
A few minutes later, the old man shouts, “Like I said”—then in a normal tone he repeats his philosophy—“if you’re not dead, you’re not done.”
Heads turn and nod in agreement. My friend and I decide to talk about baseball.
