(The light enters as a long, soft rectangle. It is golden and paints a dirty interior slightly pleasant in its nostalgic bask. People are drinking astride of the light on either side of this barroom hall. They turn their cheek from it, squinting through plumes of smoke.)
“I have to drink this to become myself, to see myself.” This mantra is muttered until several vodka sodas are drowned.
“I traveled until my tires went from black to melted and uniform in that there were no grooves or traction. I tried the brakes but skating on hot stone I sailed away…”
A glass rolls off the counter, bounces then shatters.
“The only thing beautiful is the scenery of the world. It’s vastness and its depth of nature, marred in a tragic and fascinating manner by humanity.”
“A hypocrisy, ipso facto.” She parroted. Pretty slugs crawl about the canvass.
“God forbid they try to talk and ruin the serenity of this hell indefinitely.” He offered.
“I am hateful and primal.” He sighed.
“You are a creep imbued too much thought- who had appreciated his experiences at their moment but has grown to detest them when provoked to reveal them.” She exhaled and her eyebrow raised. Coughing, she turned.
“…Rotors glowing, the asphalt as ice, roaring rumbling, and pumping foot- catastrophic brake failure at 10,000 feet above sea level and hurtling down a hazard-broad, 9 percent grade!” Somebody roared.
“It is ugliness in experience and beauty in simplicity.” He went on. “Separation, isolation, disdain, disgust and disregarded is yielded in the bloom of these hateful seeds.”
“Savage I have become in my ideology, Margret.”
“Yes,” the bartender joined, “One who retreats in worthless projects and count his speculations, then drinks them in drams and ice-cubed glasses– what are you having?“