“And… what if I told you that the expression “sleep is the cousin of death” is not merely an expression?” Prof. Waltz exclaimed, inquisitively, as he struck the board with a black sharpie.

Sinisterly, Sal sank into his seat, squirming, he said, “Uh, I mean — yeah, it’s all black and stuff, but… I mean, I wake up every day, right?”

Prof. Waltz meandered, pondering the response, then poignantly poised in opposition, declaring, “To the body, it may not be. However, to the mind, when your eyes close and the day is done, when your body settles and slips into the unconscious, what is the difference, for those 8 hours, between sleep and death?”

Sal, perplexed, scrambled, but sure of himself said: “Well, we’re still breathing? We’re dreaming? Um, I don’t know man, I guess I’ve never died…”

“Oh, but you have —” creepily, Prof. Waltz limped out of the room throwing a handkerchief in the air, “and you will again,” he said, smiling.