Tell me something not dreamt up in misguided idealism, [he says, rising,] and I might listen.
[The bed fades into a greyish slab of suggestion. The rug's fine pattern becomes clear where he steps, murky when his foot leaves it. He's coming nearer, and taking in all the edges of this vision she's delivering to him, judging by the movements of his eyes.]
no subject
[The bed fades into a greyish slab of suggestion. The rug's fine pattern becomes clear where he steps, murky when his foot leaves it. He's coming nearer, and taking in all the edges of this vision she's delivering to him, judging by the movements of his eyes.]
You might start with why you're here.