Breakfast

Scene: A table. 4 a.m. Two people are eating.

ERNEST: We've been eating for twenty minutes, you know.
BARTHES: So?
E: I'm starting to see double. I think there may be something fishy in the cereal.
B: I thought you were a pescaterian.
E: I don't remember.
B: ...
E: Doesn't it bother you sometimes?
B: ...
E: ...not remembering?
B: ...
E: We're losing the days when we used to care about things. When things shone with a light that seemed to come from not-quite-behind the objects.
B: ...
E: ...
B: Yeah. Sometimes.
E: What?
B: Sometimes.
E: ...
B: ...
E: I think we need a new icebox.
B: ...
E: ...
B: How about you buy a fucking fridge?
E: (Mockingly imitating Barthes) "But neighbour Roxanne has one! Please! Please! Please!" ... no.
B: You're a dipshit.
E: ...
B: ...
E: I'm not a dipshit. I'm only 26. I don't deserve this. I was a theosophist. I used to cleanse karma by moving my eyes back and forth. I turned spaces into places. I directed Non-referential Compassion towards all beings. I painted pastel pictures of cirrus clouds. I danced the wild dances of the East and sweated to the Lambada... the forbidden dance! No... I sweated from it. I streamed my sweat in expanding spirals around me. I never needed to go to space. The inner space was boundless. We could have imploded like that. Into that inner space. I could have called you "darling". I could have meant it. I did mean it. For a little while.
B: ...
E: ...
B: What?
E: ...
B: ...
E: ...
B: Go put the milk back in Roxanne's fridge.
E: Why?
B: ...
E: ...

Exit ERNEST.

B: ...

Exit BARTHES

Consider: "What is unique about the "I" hides itself exactly in what is unimaginable about a person."