Yeah, if you buy that we're all fucking pixels now-- [kavinsky listens to her talk, his attention drifting slightly. in that shocky way that people do when they've been recently traumatized. she has her way of dealing with it, and so does he. if you squint a little, maybe you'll notice there are certain strange similarities between their respective methods. neither of them are much one for breaking down in front of other people, soliciting comfort in the obvious ways that they tell you to do in books. hug. say feeling words.

he can tell she's feeling emotional, and the mercy he thinks to grant her is that he looks away. eyeing his dog. pretending not to notice.]

Hey. [and then the idea gets him randomly-- a spark in the mire. kind of like supposedly you can start fires with the methane gas farts from bogs and marshes? inspiration of this stanky boot nature.

kavinsky straightens slightly, his skinny arms crossed over his chest. it's random as fuck. it's a bad idea. she can't stand him, not really; most people can't. he says it anyway:] We should live together, 'Manda. You and me. Come on. There's a shitton of real estate. [he gestures up at the buildings around them, their empty-eyed fronts. apartments. no doubt there are houses, somewhere further out.] You'll stay outta my shit. I'll dream you some shit of your own.