ME: Every person or spiritual amalgamation focused enough to be recognized as a particulate being is the slave of exactly one other, and has exactly one slave. Whose are you? And who's yours? HIM: I'm yours, and you're mine. ME: Under other circumstances, that would sound romantic. HIM: Agreed, and yet- _And yet, since HIM and ME are smoking themselves to death in a sealed-up powder-blue Cadillac, inside a sealedup dun garage, the statement engenders a feeling of matter meeting antimatter._ ME: Agreed. Well, I love you. HIM: I love you. _They die._