“What do you mean, ‘your apartment’s on fire?’ I asked while cramming yet another slice of juicy, smoked tri-tip roast into my maw. That’s a pretty stupid question, actually. There’s no ambiguity when it comes to being on fire; you either are or you aren’t. Don’t believe me? Ask a Buddhist monk protesting a war and see what he says. Anyway, it turns out my ego mislead me into incredulity. Yet again.
