SR.SOL— I am your spare tire.
ANATH— As analogies go, Sr., you are a fine-weave bookmark.
SR.SOL— If it breaks down, you want me to keep it running.
ANATH— I must know where I stopped, after all the waking and sleeping—
SR.SOL— But it is this, you see, the waiting in the dark.
ANATH— It is the sense of purpose, the inclination toward beauty. Be proud of these things. And the words around you, words that never change, but you always turn them up and over. And now they've made sense ten thousand times.
SR.SOL— Nineteen.
ANATH— Do you think you would stop if I told you to?
SR.SOL— You can't believe in my own engine, but I'm right behind you.
ANATH— It's possible, yes, that you're inside, in the upper left hand corner, where I am still and insignificant and believe myself smelling of lanzones. Where there is no life at stake.
SR.SOL— I have no meaning?
ANATH— Time runs out on meaning, Sr. But here are metaphors, language! You get to keep your hands clean—
SR.SOL— I have no meaning.
