_In the living room as usual._ HIM: I wrote another poem today. ME: Let’s see. HIM: Okay. Here. ME: _[after reading poem]_ You know, incomplete and kind of silly as it is, I actually kind of like this one. HIM: Is that all you can do is speak in kind-of's? ME: You sound like a post card from a self-help convention. HIM: So. At least I’m a poet. Being something saves me. You don’t even really have an identity. ME: I don’t need one. HIM: You’re only saying that. ME: Then that’s my identity: the freak with no identity. HIM: Then I guess we are both just flip sides of the same coin. ME: Yep. Two freaks with no souls, no characters, and nothing important to talk about. HIM: Cool, baby. _The lights dim. Why? I don’t know. They just dim._