Woke up this morning at 6am, two hours earlier than usual, with a string of dialogue in my head. It began with the phrase: everything kills them.
They are very fragile. Everything kills them.
Can you give an example?
There are no examples; I mean that literally. Everything kills them, everything.
So, pesticides, of course.
What about temperature? At thirty two degrees, will they…?
What about dust? Soil that’s a bit dry?
Let me save you some time. Dirt kills them.
I’m not done. Sunlight kills them. Air kills them. Space itself kills them. Time! Living! Everything kills them!
I don’t understand.
What don’t you understand?
If that’s true, then, how are they around, you know?
Well. There is one thing that doesn’t kill them.
What doesn’t kill them is—talking about them.
Talking about them?
That’s right. It’s the only thing that encourages their growth.
So, right now, you mean…?
It does seem that way. And yet, they thrive on it. They grow and grow and grow.
I’m afraid you’ve really lost me now.
They can get quite beautiful—strange, but beautiful—when they mature enough. But also…
Dare I ask?
Dangerous. Also dangerous.
Uh-huh. When do they reach that stage?
And what makes them dangerous, exactly?
Well, they get mature enough and suddenly they start wanting something. But what they want is… it’s not something they can have. So.
Now you’re just being—
We must stop talking about them now.