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Thursday, August 25, 2011

He sat staring at the ceiling. Smoke danced above his head. He looked like a young Brando, sitting there with his tousled hair and classic features. He didn't belong.

"You should stop smoking, you know. It'll kill you."

He looked at me, eyes hazy."Death and taxes, babe."

I shook my head sideways. He never listened to anyone. In fact, he'd almost always do the opposite. He used to drive me crazy with his ridiculous antics. Lookin back, I realized now that we weren't so different after all. I rebelled against most that tried to institutionalize me too. Although our degree of rebelling differ, we were the same. I should've seen that before.

"At the rate you are going, I'll be a regular visitor at the cancer ward in, say, 2 years?"

He dragged in a lungful of smoke. Out came long blows of Os, teasing me. He laughed.

"Don't worry babe. I promise you cancer won't have a chance with me," he said, as he rested his hands on my shoulders.
"You won't see me in them pathetic green uniforms. I'd rather get hit by a bus."

He bent down and planted a kiss on my cheek. As he walked out of the door towards the lawn, he cheekily blew me another kiss, wafting acrid smoke my way.

I shrugged. 29 and still too carefree, too naive, too can't give a fuck about anything, I thought.


But he was right. Cancer never did get the best of him.

My beloved rebel died in a hiking accident while trekking in Annapurna, Nepal. What a way to go, huh?

I can imagine him smiling from above, mocking me, "Toldja I was gonna exit the building in the most extraordinary way!"

You bastard.

Thanks for being a great friend and mentor. I'll miss our banters.
R.I.P Maximilian.
1979-2011
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