“Is it dystopia, or now? Is it myth or me? Am I unhappy because someone’s writing my life this way?”
“Silly.”
“No, it isn’t. Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m me and I’m thinking my thoughts and my life is the result of my own actions.”
“How nice for you. How comfortable.”
“Don’t be that way.”
“What way? Should we both share the veil? There’s so much here – so much that it’s probably part of someone’s intricate, beautiful, horrible imagination. It’s someone’s trees and cuts and chewing and rowboating and cantaloupes and red onions and crying and birds and sharp stones.”
“Well I hope they don’t mind us eating some of this imagination or tripping over it.”
“Don’t be that way.”
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