Rahm Emanuel

And now all I can hear is that music, and suddenly everything just fucking...

I can see a thousand fucking skylines, and they are all as motherfucking glorious as the first, and I can feel the touch of my friends.

Quaxelrod flies over, and dips his little head, touching my fading shoe. Hambone just curls softly between my invisible legs.

Carl the Intern can't even make eye contact, but he's reaching out, and I touch his hand. And he says, "I love you," and I say "I know."

And that song's still playing from the car radio, on a never-fucking ending loop from hell.

And I can see myself starting to fade out, and I hear Axelrod whispering the fucking Kaddish quietly to himself, tears streaming.

And then the sky fucking opens up on us, and there's chunks of ice flying down. And it's pretty clear that the party's over.

FUCK YOU, YOU MOTHERFUCKING TIME VORTEX. I FUCKING LOVE DANCING WITH MY FRIENDS.

And we've pulled the Civic over, turned up "Separate Ways," and we're fucking dancing out here on the motherfucking streets!

We're driving down Elston when, all of a fucking sudden Axelrod's radio starts working. It's playing that fucking Journey song!

Picked up Carl the Intern at Lane Tech, after his mathletes practice. Carl's first words: "There's not much time left." Motherfuck.

Knowing I'm entering a time vortex tonight would be a lot more tolerable if I could get Journey's "Separate Ways" out of my fucking head.

Tossing bread to Quaxelrod under the Cortland street bridge. The view from here is motherfucking incredible.

Driving around in Axelrod's Civic, doing loops around the block outside Chico's offices, my ass hanging out of the missing window, laughing.

Watching Axelrod eat at Manny's is like watching Da Vinci paint the motherfucking Mona Lisa: a work of art.

And we sit down and plan out one last, perfect, day: Lunch at Manny's, mooning Chico, tossing fucking bread to Quaxelrod.

And we hug, and I give Axelrod that look that asks, "Are you going to be OK?" And he gives me that look that says "Who fucking knows."

"There must be something we can do..." But there's not. Only things that fucking suck never end: look at laundry, or dishes.

Axelrod looks up, tears filling his eyes and says, simply, "don't go." Fucking time portals are a son of a bitch.

We're sharing a cup together in the crawlspace, and I can tell that Axelrod's trying not to cry by the way his mustache fucking quivers.