After living many years away, places I call home, clear and blue sky, a more than normal degrees higher sun, old mates, and old habits soothed my pitchy, weary eyes. Above, the pink-golden April light grew brighter, and the seven per cent alcohol-content beers started to occupy our minds.

“Why do we celebrate life?” my husband suddenly asked. “Why do you think we do anything at all when we are going to die anyway?”
I took a moment to reflect. All things will pass and decay. Whether we dance, sing, hold a stick, wear black or white, do not wear anything, cry, eat, drink, or spend a billion dollars to get to space, everything and everyone will perish. He was right. All our efforts are futile, so why bother?

I stared at the clear avenue and looked at my friend.
“Is it because without them, we live meaningless existence?”
He stayed silent.
“Doesn’t giving meaning to our life give us purpose?”
He picked up his Duvel and nodded.
“ I guess so. It ain’t that complicated, huh,” he replied.
“It really ain’t,” I said, downing my Tripel D’Anvers. “Death is a guarantee like life is a guarantee. We can do all sorts of stupid things if we choose to.”
He laughed.
“Just shut your mind for now and enjoy the scenery, will you?”
“F**k it,” he waved his hand at the waiter. “I’m getting another one.”