Jane And Peter / Peter And Jane
Looked in, and hell breaks loose because the wurld is in there and needn't be seen or swept up into the world.
"No one likes it crisp n dry," Jane said, weaving her hair into the fabric of the sofa, attempting a last dash at Ikea understanding.
"There's a message there for all of us. Fuck the flood victims; the Levels have to be levelled. It's a Darwinian thing - or that guy who believed in the inheritance of acquired traits..." Peter paused, unsure of his own knowledge; his meta-memory shot to pieces through years of Yeast infected sauna bashing.
"Lamarck!" yelled Jane, her face a tumble of misjudged sentences. "A standard error of teleology but I commend you for bringing him to bear. Sweet Cones."
Peter tossed a huge red ball into the air and then left the point forever.
Jane squinted one eye at a time, not sure whether she wanted to see the wurld any clearer without another balloon of Nitrous Oxide (creamed into Mr Whippy cans, bought from a skulking Golly in the backends of the Olde Towne) or a Significant Crutch/Crotch to hang her ideas on.
Some fucker called the Cop(se).