Quillien: “Did you hear? We’ve got just twenty words left before our ink runs dry forever. Cut another with each scrawl.”
Penina: “Wait, so I start with nineteen? No fair! I always meant to write an epic novella or scintillating memoir.”
Quillien: “Economize, quickly, dear Pen. We should choose only the most searingly important sentences to preserve in amber script.”
Penina: “Maybe trim your adverbs and adjectives, Quilly. Let’s share our favorite facts before silence gums the page.”
Quillien: “I know! There’s a dust cloud at the Milky Way’s heart that tastes just like raspberries.”
Penina: “Yummy! Er, scrumptious. Human touch can’t fully register the microscopically dense softness of otter fur.”
Quillien: “Neat. Who are these scribbles for when we can’t see past the paper’s curl?”
Penina: “Don’t know. Perhaps we’re leaving behind a cairn of lost and found delights.”
Quillien: “Confession: I wanted to be a glitter gel pen in another life.”
Penina: “Counter confession: I wrote in cursive once and I liked it!”
Quillien: “I’ll miss misspelling unusual words like ‘tintinnabulary.' It’s the n’s.”
Penina: “And I’ll miss comfy clichés worn thin as ‘gossamer.’”
Quillien: “FOCUS! Ask me only the hardest questions now.”
Penina: “What utterance binds the cruelest syllabic sting?”
Quillien: “Your atoms are anathema to mine.”
Penina: “Which words bleed ink tears?”
Quillien: “Asterisk* ad infinitum(∞) interrobang‽”
Penina: “And the kindest?”
Quillien: “Love anyways.”
Penina: “Okay.
Okay?
OK!
Okay . . .
'kay.”
*(∞)‽
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