ON A RECENT Saturday night, the scene was serene inside Tac-tile Mountain, a small, carefully curated shop in Pasadena. The meditation cushions were laid out on the concrete floor. A sea of white candles was flickering in the window. And then the restaurant next door started blasting Umbrella by Rihanna.
The six of us who had gathered inside laughed nervously. We were already excited and a little hesitant. After all, we were there to contemplate our own deaths.
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