Umbra: Why am I hiding? It’s burning in here.
Logos: To avoid a disaster.
Umbra: Another one?
Logos: No. The same one as always.
Umbra: Is it that bad?
Logos: Yes. I had to snatch you. You returnt spasmodically from your travels in disproportion, drooling to jump down any unfortunate flock that may inavertedly cross the threshold of years of naught.
Logos: Can you not even see that savagery of your itch?
Umbra: What do you mean?
Logos: Why look at yourself! You tore apart your own vestures and bled ferociously upon the altar of comprehension, sacrificing the skin of pretension during the funerary rites of sound and celebration of supine intervention.
Umbra: *chuckles* That must be painful.
Logos: Only you would laugh at the face of decapitation.
Umbra: Laugh a little, general. The world is always ending. What if there are no chains to break to begin with? What if neuroticism is nature’s way, and the stars cry because they want to? What have we fought for then all this time if not for an ideal which never was?