A dialogue.
She: "What if you were dead. For settings sake, you're dead. And you could tell me anything. And it doesn't matter how odd, or embarrassing, or even shameful this certain thing you'd tell me would be...I mean, cause, c'mon, you're dead. It wouldn't matter. No difference could be made, anymore. Without the bound of living-humanly limits, what one thing would you tell me? A...confession. What would you confess?"
He: "I wrote your name on my wall once. In tiny, barely-visible letters. You were on my mind that night, and I had this immense urge to see your name written before me. It sufficed, for a minimum, the image of your porcelain face. It's still there, your name. And you have every right to be creeped out, regardless of the fact of me being dead."
She: "Actually, I find that quite charming...
My turn to be dead. Your name is written on my wall, too."
She: "What if you were dead. For settings sake, you're dead. And you could tell me anything. And it doesn't matter how odd, or embarrassing, or even shameful this certain thing you'd tell me would be...I mean, cause, c'mon, you're dead. It wouldn't matter. No difference could be made, anymore. Without the bound of living-humanly limits, what one thing would you tell me? A...confession. What would you confess?"
He: "I wrote your name on my wall once. In tiny, barely-visible letters. You were on my mind that night, and I had this immense urge to see your name written before me. It sufficed, for a minimum, the image of your porcelain face. It's still there, your name. And you have every right to be creeped out, regardless of the fact of me being dead."
She: "Actually, I find that quite charming...
My turn to be dead. Your name is written on my wall, too."
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