Dear Ann Landers. Now that you’re dead, will the world go to hell in a handcart—or can it, for all you care? With distance, does it seem less central to the scheme of things—the world, I mean—at least the world as it is—or even the whole shebang—is it expendable? Would all our souls be better off released into a void which is no void but—finally—fellowship? Or do you, dear lady, now that you’re no longer guessing, still insist we matter as such? Sincerely, Has the Bomb in Brooklyn.
Consolation Site: Dear Towelhead