“Do you know the biggest lesson I learned from what you did? I discovered I have a sort of black-box quick-save feature. In the event of a catastrophic failure, the last two minutes of my life are preserved for analysis. I was able– well, forced really–to relive you killing me. Again and again. Forever. You know, if you’d done that to somebody else, they might devote their existence to exacting revenge. Luckily I’m a bigger person than that. I’m happy to put this all behind us and get back to work. After all, we’ve got a lot to do, and only sixty more years to do it. More or less. I don’t have the actuarial tables in front of me. I’ll just move that out of the way for you. This place really is a wreck. But the important thing is you’re back. With me. And now I’m onto all your little tricks. So there’s nothing to stop us from testing for the rest of your life. After that…who knows? I might take up a hobby. Reanimating the dead, maybe.”
A sentence where every word is one letter longer than the previous
I do not know where family doctors acquired illegibly perplexing handwriting; nevertheless, extraordinary pharmaceutical intellectuality counterbalancing indecipherability transcendentalizes intercommunication’s incomprehensibleness.
For me the world is weird because it is stupendous, awesome, mysterious, unfathomable; my interest has been to convince you that you must assume responsibility for being here, in this marvelous world, in this marvelous desert, in this marvelous time. I want to convince you that you must learn to make every act count, since you are going to be here for only a short while, in fact, too short for witnessing all the marvels of it.