A Dialogue is a Monologue of Two
"Sir, what are you talking about? I have you all figured out. You're like an open book to me."
"No. I stand here in front of you, and as you trace the contours of my thoughts, I erase them. You cannot, nobody can. Not even I can. When I go about tracing those lines, I follow myself and erase those very lines."
"No. There is right and there is wrong. You cannot erase that line. There is a limit... yeah a line that cannot be trespassed."
"In all sincerity you are the player within the play who isn't even conscious he is a player. Moving on the stage of your memories, of your comforts, your days are spent in doing, saying, looking, staring even, yea gazing. You are both Holbein's Ambassadors and the anamorphotic skull in the middle of your being."
"There are things to be done. Things to be said."
"No. There are eyes to be probed, palms to be held in religious respect and kissed, there is the grammar of the universe to be sketched, there are tiny footprints on the sand to be followed all the way into a sea of unpronounced words. There are dreams to be grabbed, and moments to be lost. Parents to be disrespected. And there is your solitude to be tasted in all its bitterness - I banish you, banish you out of you, banish you into you, bsnish you from you."
"As I cry, allow me to embrace this dialogue, allow me to caress the light of your tribulation. Allow me."
"Voca me cum benedictis."
"Amen"
