Once there was a man who saw only the world as it was, not as it could be. He didn't plan, he didn't hope, he didn't dream. He just tried to eke a living and get on with his life. This man was a pragmatist and a realist. He didn't believe in abstract ideals or the theoretical; he only believed in what could be experienced, or quantified. This man lived by Occam's Razor, he cut his sandwhiches with it, he fucking shaved with it.
I am not him.
Jean is still alive. It's not over yet.