Karl: Delicious pixie, whither the spice? DUST.

SWINTON: Hello, Karl. Your voice is the purring of the tiger I tamed last night in my living room.

Karl: True or not? Fantasy is the foreplay of reality. CLIMAX.

SWINTON: No, Karl, not until the orgy of where black and white intersect and explode into the erotic grays that shade our yens, numbering not fifty but infinity.

Karl: Your lilt intoxicates. No lemur among our planetkind could buzz my edges as you do. BLUR.

SWINTON: I feel this connection. You bring an international adapter to my plug, and together, electricity. Power. A hair dryer, keening in the wind, its purpose lost and found.

Karl: I will mourn the end of our duet. A fruit bowl broken, but not the way you think, is where poetry is born. You are the bowl, and fruit is for the wicked. PEEL.

SWINTON: So rare a bird are you that birds themselves quit, and join the circus. Promise me we’ll meet again.

Karl: Have you the feet to travel? Shoes make spirits whole. HEM.

SWINTON: Fare you well.

Karl: I bit you sad farewell, knowing I will forget we ever met. Memories are for the innocent. SIN.