"Ow." "What hurts?" "...?" "...?" "... nothing." "Stressed." "Yeah." "We all are. And we both know mental torment is a contradiction in terms. And you're trying to make your suffering epic. It's not. We all hate, we all bitterly scourge. You're ju-" "AH HATE YOU AH HATE YOU AH HATE YOU AH HATE YOU-" "You know I'm right." "You don't know you are." "I do." "Is not anything less than perfect torture, to being who can dream of such a concept, yet live in a universe where it is, a contradiction in terms? There's always the lost love, strikeout, deadline, dead line, even for the rich and fat and the stars and the lovers and everybody, everybody just wants to be happy, forever, and it keeps going on--" "Lost love, strikeout, deadline, dead line, unjust coflict? WHat you speak are trifles! You will survive another damn day, and what, what the hell are you whining about what the hell are you--" "Lost love, strikeout, deadline, dead line, unjust conflict, limited time! Yes! Yes! All these are cuases of my suffering, though 's not worth mentioning on a reletive scale--" "Exactly! Lost love, strikeout, deadline, dead line, unjust conflict, limited time, LIMITED TIME?! All you do is mourn about how you can't divide infinity! In the real world, it just doesn't fit on your calculator! So what? This will lead you nowhere!" "Where am I now?" "Somewhere!" "Somewhere?" "Yes! Why mourn at how there's never enough, for anyone, when you can splendor in what you have, and what you can give to those who do not have! Even if your name will be forgotten two centuries hence, even if no girl is you, and no possetion satisfies your greed--" "Greed!" "Yes! You weep over things that never were! Sieze the blasted day, and move on, move on, move past your laments of stress and bustle and toil. You know not real toil, the hard work of the fields. Greed! You talk of dreams, but 'tis really only regression! Greed, yes! You want things to be perfect, forever, for the fun to never end, for the weight of decisions to be abolished for a righter measure, when you know none can exist. You talk of dreams, sweet sweet dreams, but dreams can only fail you, for it comes to pass for oh so few, and that's the problem you have. It comes to pass. All glory fades over the centuries. No one will worship you! No one will bow before your majesty, which will always be sub-godly. No worse than any of us fools. Get over it, get over it, stop this now, END your dipping of your arm in burning oil, this tetrahedral interlocking image that haunts your days! End this, stop this now, stop the insidious prion drift, plasma burn, your sub-depraven longings! And it will be a blessing..." "Dreams and greed." "Yes." "All I got. All my imagined toil is just an imagination and greed and stupid dreams." "Yes. All of it." "Funny, I always considered myself a realist." "Heh. Do tell." "Well..." "Yes?" "It's not this reality I'm thinking of." ... "There's only one, you know." "..." "Tears?" "I know." "But..." "I know."