Remember when we flew to Vegas on a whim and we holed up in that seedy motel for six weeks?

I don't remember that at all.

Really? Not even when we worked as buskers for long enough to buy a rust-bucket '78 Chevy Impala, and then we rocketed out into the desert night, the sparks shooting from 3,616lbs of Detroit steel igniting the fumes of youth into a bright wound of fire, seemingly in defiance of the world, of endings, of death itself?

Yeah, again, not me.

OH! That's right, it wasn't you. I had a damp dish towel with me at the time.