_There is a knock at the door._ ME: Who could that be at this hour? HIM: Who could it be at any hour? Or is it the same person or people at this hour as it would be if he or she or they were to show up, say, tomorrow at six? ME: Shut the fuck up and answer the door. HIM: Your little attempts at meaningful dialogue are pathetic, worthless, boring, and indecipherable. ME: Well you little— _There is a knock at the door._ HIM: What the hell are we learning from this, anyway? I mean, I sit here not exactly telling you how I feel, or what ideas I’m having, and you sit there not exactly telling me what your reaction is, or what you think about it all. I mean it’s like all these little disconnected snippets of uninteresting code-language, stuck more or less at random like so many post-it notes on the desktop of our collective psyche. Why, I bet we— _There is a knock at the door, at exactly half the tempo of the previous knocking._ ME: Yeah, but can you say that’s really our fault? HIM: What, you’re going to tell me we’re conditioned to act this way? Or that it’s genetic or something? I don’t know about you, but I feel like a drug addict, and I feel like it’s my fault. ME: Well that’s the most ridiculous— _There is a knock at the door, at exactly half the tempo of the previous knocking._ HIM: Okay. I think whoever it is is getting pissed off. Not that I can blame them. _HIM crosses to door, opens it. He receives a flying load of shit right in the face. It is dripping slowly off him as he turns back into the room._ ME: Wha— What the— The ha— Ha-ha— HIM: This only goes to prove my point. ME: What do you mean? HIM: There was nobody there. ME: Oh don’t be so dramatic. _Feeling suddenly compassionate, or softened, or affectionate, or relaxed, ME crosses to HIM and begins to lick the shit off HIM’s face. He doesn’t really know what else to do. After all, what else is there?_