Scampi: You know what time it is?


Peter: I believe it is approximately two p.m.


Scampi: It’s time to start counting down the snowflakes.


Peter: What snowflakes?


Scampi: They’re on their way.


Peter: Are you gesturing at the advent of winter?


Scampi: The season is upon us.


Peter: What season?


Scampi: The season of DEMOCRACY!


Peter: Like, pumping your fist in the air?


Scampi: That’s right. DEMOCRACY is on its way. I can feel it in my teeth.


Peter: My teeth hurt.


Scampi: You should brush them more often.


Peter: I do brush them often.


Scampi: With a toothbrush I mean. And paste.


Peter: This may or may not be the correct interval to mention that I see no evidence of democracy or snowflakes in the air.


Scampi: I’m not sure that was the correct interval. I will make a note of your suggestion, and address it in due course.


Peter: Thank you.


Scampi: Speaking of snowflakes, I am finding the air uncommonly warm.


Peter: Yes, it buffets us about with its uncommon warmth. We are truly blessed.


Scampi: We are.




Scampi: I have made a pot of tea. Would you like some?


Peter: No thank you.




Scampi: This tea is delicious.


Peter: I have no doubt.


Scampi: I do. I am plagued with doubts. They shimmy with me across the floor. They steep in my cup.


Peter: Oh.


Scampi: Have you ever looked out, way out, to the edge of the water?


Peter: Yes.


Scampi: Me too.


Peter: You’re looking a little queasy.


Scampi: I am?


Peter: Yes.


Scampi: It’s the waves. They’re swamping me.


Peter: Oh. Perhaps I will have some tea after all.


Scampi: Help yourself.




Peter: You, ah—


Scampi: Don’t say it.


Peter: Right.


Scampi: Your hands are still so delicate. They are like moths.


Peter: Um.


Scampi: They’re practically phosphorescent. I can tell you’ve been reading lots of books.


Peter: How can you tell that?


Scampi: From your hands. They’re as delicate as your synapses.


Peter: There’s nothing delicate about my synapses.


Scampi: Of course not. Your synapses are firing a sixteen gun salute as we speak.


Peter: How terrifying.


Scampi: For my part, I salute your synapses, and their utter lack of delicacy.


Peter: I think I’m getting a migraine.


Scampi: It’s all that gunpowder going off in your hippocampus.


Peter: [SHUDDERS.]


Scampi: That was theatrical.


Peter: Yes well.


Scampi: Can you feel the wind on your face?


Peter: Why wouldn’t I?


Scampi: As we have previously discussed, you have hair growing out of your face.


Peter: So what?


Scampi: So maybe you can’t feel the wind. I don’t know anything about it.


Peter: I can feel the wind.


Scampi: Can you feel it rifling through your beard, looking for secrets?


Peter: No. There are no secrets in my beard.


Scampi: If I had a beard, I would fill it to the max.


Peter: With secrets?


Scampi: Yes. It would be the ultimate piggy bank.


Peter: Well, good for you.


Scampi: Thank you. Covert operations are my specialty. What direction is this wind coming from?


Peter: It’s coming from the far side of the world.


Scampi: It smells a bit like yesterday.


Peter: Yes. This is due to physics.


Scampi: Tell me.


Peter: Tell you what?


Scampi: Something I don’t know.


Peter: First I will have more tea.


Scampi: Go ahead. I’ve got all day.


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