I honor the light and the dark inside you.
What do you honor?
How much would you give me to eat this?
I once spent ten days in a purified silence. It was hard,
but I learned to like people better. What did you ever learn?
How much for whatever’s in this bowl?
I’d say it’s been in here a good six months.
Do you know what a dipterist studies?
C’mon, how much?
Not a penny. Do you like my friends?
No.
Okay then. How about my family?
Not especially.
My co-workers? My grocer? That lady that always asks me for a dollar?
No. No. No. Ooh, look at this. A rotten grape. How much?
What kind of person do you want to be?
A rich one.
I want to be kind and gentle. I want to raise butterflies.
I want to be rich and more rich. I want to make money and spend it.
I can’t plant tomatoes though. That I simply won’t do.
You won’t need to. We got farmstands.
Here we go, blue-cloudy barbeque sauce. To drink the whole bottle.
Name your price, lover, name your price.
Seveny-five cents. No water chasers.
Or okay, how about this stuff here? It’s really old. Maybe some kind of pasta.
Maybe a bean salad from the party.
When you dream, what do you dream about?
Money.
Is that all? Because I dream about going to prison for crimes I didn’t commit.
I dream about sex with donkeys and being forced into stuff. I dream about rooms
leading into other rooms. You ever dream about donkeys?
I dream about being rich.
I dream about blue-faced people, drown victims exhumed from
the Atlantic, found just offshore in propeller planes, still buckled in but their hair
flying around like french medusas.
You dream about rich people.
Death dressed in Prada.
Death walking across the seafloor in a Prada suit.
Right, exactly. That’s how he dresses. I wanna go out just like that.
Imagine the vessel settled onto the sand.
And death strolling over in this suit, he’s handsome,
bending to peer into the watery chamber,
checking his watch, giving a little wave.
Beautiful. How much for these little corn thingies if I dip them in the sauce?
They look as if they don’t believe.
