The instantly debated last minutes of the show’s concluding episode found Draper ... at the end of a cross-country trek, at an Esalen-like retreat in California, experiencing what looked like some moment of transcendence as a smile unfurled above his lantern-like jaw. With a final ding, the scene cut to the 1971 Coca-Cola “Hilltop” commercial—a sign that Draper had found the enlightenment this famous ad was trying to commodify or was responsible for creating the ad himself. —the Times.

It’s so nice here, by the ocean. Meditating. No thoughts. Wait. Ladies. I like ladies. So many ladies. Pop the thought like a bubble. Let it float away. Ha ha. A bubble. Champagne has bubbles. I like champagne. I like alcohol. I like it so much. I would drink rubbing alcohol if there were no other alcohol around. I would. Why not? Wait. Why is my back to the ocean? Oh well. Just be. Wind on skin. Heat of sun. Sounds of waves in the distance. Just ... be ... here ... now ... in the present. Though later I will have sex with one and possibly three of these women here meditating. Wait. Maybe I shouldn’t. Who am I? Am I Don or Dick? What is it I want? What am I running from? Betty’s dying. Sally hates me. Still. Three women would be great. I’m thirsty. Alcohol. Maybe a Coke. Coke has bubbles. Am I smiling? I feel like I may be smiling. I wish I could ask someone if I was smiling. But then I wouldn’t be smiling. If I had been smiling. If I had a Coke, I’d have a Coke and a smile. That’s weird. I need to change. To be better. I hate myself. I need to learn to be a better person. I’d like to teach myself French. Megan spoke French. Megan was annoying. God, she was annoying. Everything about her was annoying, even when she spoke French, which is rare, as French is so melodic. I don’t miss her. Why did I give her a million dollars? That’s a lot of money. In 2015, it’s like five million three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. I’ll be eighty-eight then. If I’m alive. Breathe, Don. Dick. Whatever. The instructor quoted the Buddha, who said, “Death is certain. And the hour of our death is uncertain. So what is the most important thing?” Smoking. I’d kill for a smoke. Why do I say “What?” so much, with a really annoyed face? I do that a lot. Too much? Maybe I could live here. In California. What would I do all day? I miss advertising. I hate advertising. Advertising is a lie. I’m a lie. Yoga is different from yogurt. Yogurt smells funny. Yoga is a thing from India. Namaste means yoga pants. I think that’s what he said. Or maybe it means aloha, which means "hello" and "goodbye" and "Hey, you, look over there." I may be wrong. I once knew a girl named Lulu. In high school. I took her to a movie and, after, we had lemonade. Lulu Lemonade, I called her, though not to her face. I wonder if she likes yoga. Or yogurt. Yogurt’s kind of gross. If I were a bird, I would want to be a hawk because I could swoop down and steal people’s house pets. That’s not nice. It’s a funny visual, though, a hawk taking a cat out of a yard. Maybe it’s not that funny. For the cat. Maybe I should go back to New York. Advertising is all I have. But why can’t I learn something new? I could teach. Copywriting. Or drinking. Or how to be with the ladies. Or how to say “What?” in an annoyed voice. Introduction to What. Advanced What. What for Seniors. Plumbing’s a good gig. Fix sinks. I could teach sink-fixing. I could teach the world how to fix sinks. That’s weird. I’m still thirsty. Maybe a trip to the mountains after this. Maybe all of us could go. We’d need provisions. And Coke. I’d like to teach a course in camping after taking a course in camping, as I don’t know much about it. I hope we don’t do the chanting part. All of us. Chanting. Here. Outside. In perfect harmony. Boy, I could use a Coke. Wait.