It's always been a dream of mine to be the sole survivor of a spectacular disaster, like a plane crash or train derailment. I always envision myself staggering from the wreckage amid smoldering chunks of twisted metal in a field, a lone figure with dirt on his face, perhaps a broken arm, maybe a contusion, whatever that is. Gaping rescue workers would spot me and yell out, word would spread, a miracle, how is it possible, the damnedest thing. This emergence from the wreckage is the most important part, I've imagined it in great detail. We've all seen such people in movies, a figure slowly becoming recognizable through the smoke, the only soldier to survive the firefight, the choking man stumbling from the burning building just before it explodes. These figures are imbued with a special aura, an aura worshipped in our culture. They're lucky bastards. I want to be a lucky bastard too. People would murmur and point. There goes that lucky son of a bitch. The media would surround me, clamor for interviews. "Clamor." How wonderful to be clamored for! They'd want to hear my "story", the story of my incredible good fortune in not being ripped to pieces like everyone else, through no effort of my own. I'd explain how I did nothing to improve the chances of my survival, in fact did nothing at all except experience total paralyzing terror, in the so-called "moments before impact", but that despite my cowardly inaction I was spared, me alone out of all those hundreds of people, and here I am. And instead of this frank admission invalidating my claim to notoriety, it would instead enhance it, because everyone in the viewing audience of Dateline and 20/20 knows deep down that they would do exactly the same thing, which is to say nothing, and so in a way I would become their hero.