The sun rises just before Ernest undresses and washes himself. The morning finds him impotent and the hunger of his restless night makes the cloud of his self conception vapid and odorous. He feigns disgust at his own self, but secretly, he knows his pleasure of being is this contempt and he can’t erase the grin from his face. Stepping into the living room, he takes a seat on the loveseat upholstered in blue with deep buttons.

Seeing the smile on his face and knowing Ernest to be meager, his friend calls to him from the kitchen and she says:

“Last night made me realize - we have a misalignment. My words are not yours anymore, but the illusion of sameness divides me & you still.”

As if she could say more, and desperately wanted to, her jaw clenches and she masticates gently on the stray words unsaid, knowing they could not express anything more precisely than that which had already been spoken. Noticing her resolve, Ernest accepts the thought with all its implicit contempt, as if it had been his own, and an image of their terrible divergence flares briefly, at the precipice of materializing.