NewsMan.
ScreenWriter.
What's With The Ocean?
it's immense.
i can't see the end of it.
i used to love its depths.
Yeah?
yeah!
like. you don't know what's in it. you don't know what's UNDER it.
Dirt And Rocks, Probably.
yeah but,
under the cracks. there's more animals under the underwater vents and shit.
whatever's the actual name of these.
I Am Going To Ask Again, NM.
And I Want An Actual, Non-Cryptic Answer.
Why Haven't You Come To Work?
i am a very forgetful person, SW.
You Forgot You Have A Job????
not THAT!!!
i just-
i've- i am scared that i've permanently buried everything about my past self,
and that i lost all those experiences.
like,
i forget so many things.
life goes on and on,
and it's gotten to the point where i am SO detached from her that i've given this "past self" a name and an identity of her own,
and i caged her in that closet,
and now everything she liked and feared is second-hand information to me
and she's now drifting away on the surface level
alongside everything else,
and i am left with like, a simple sense of what i was supposed to be like,
but her corpse's rotten and most likely getting buried underwater by the constant waves,
her bones under the vents,
the underwater vents with all the animals inside the cracks.
You're Way Too Fucking Dramatic, NM.
i know!!! i've always been this way!!!
I Still Don't Understand.
I Get The Metaphor, NewsMan, Really.
Maintaining "The Sense" Of An Identity That's Long Gone Is Hard,
You Don't HAVE To Do That Though.
You Don't Owe The World Consistency.
The World Itself Isn't Consistent. Never Has Been!
But If I Am Remembering Right, You DO Have An Actual Fucking Corpse In Your Closet.
Like,
Is That One There Still?
that's the thing i mean.
the closet corpse is me. it's actually me. not a metaphor. like, literally.
What
it's my carcass.
Your What
moult
it was a moult.
i woke up one day, about five years ago.
i was covered in a slimy, nauseating substance;
my face was paralized by the wind freezing the moisture in place,
and when i finally managed to leave the bed, it was all there,
glued to the sheets.
'twas the old shell of my body.
it was separated into layers of skin, muscle, bones...
but I myself was still whole.
i felt whole, at least.
i named her.
the carcass, i mean-- or shell, whatever.
i gave her an identity, too.
the shell i left behind deserved to be someone.
and i hid her, in the closet.
but, about a week ago, i checked there again--
she was gone.
she had left a wet trail behind her,
and i followed it to this beach,
and here i saw bits of bone and flesh scattered around the shore,
dry,
but fresh.
since then i've been mostly sitting here. thinking about life,
and about what it means to give your old "self" an intangible sense of humanity,
i guess.
it's silly, but i don't feel like coming back to normal life yet.
can you cover this weekend at work for me?
please. just this once.
...Okay.
I Can Cover The News For A Bit.
thank you, SW.
But You'll Be Cat-Sitting For The Weekend Then.
oh, what a tragedy!!!
thanks again, ScreenWriter.
No Problem, NewsMan.