On Saturday John ate two apples, one of which had a worm in it. For the next six nights he experienced a recurring dream that he was being eaten from the inside out by wood lice, and would regale his workmates with his discovery that the degree by which his fingers naturally curved inwards (towards his palms) corresponded to the number of years he had lived, and speculated that on the day of his death his fingers would be curled up into complete circles, and afterward into fists. This theory was not refuted by the fact that children do not have perfectly straightened fingers, because children were to be considered ageless until they reached puberty. At 6 o'clock on Friday night, at the end of a week which had been the most peaceful and reflective he had ever known, John went to a bar, drank three pints of cider, flirted with a bar stool, and bumped into a lamppost as he staggered home because he was imagining that his legs were no longer moving but that the world was shifting uncontrollably beneath him.
Now, if we assume that John exchanged certain elementary properties with the lamppost in their momentary collision, is there any reason why John, after recovering from the subsequent morning's hangover, shouldn't look in the mailbox and find that it leads to another world?
Or just suddenly drop dead.
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