A friend and I were on a phone call and discovered the meaning to life. Absolute, certain, irrefutable meaning of life. There was no questioning it, no misunderstanding it.
It is gone. Neither of us can remember it. All we can remember is that the conversation started by me describing the “cloacal kiss,” the mating method of chickens.
Neither of us were high or drunk or (above normal) sleep deprived.










I have, in fact, been told I am a man of very little substance.