"Earl, mine love... the dreams are coming more frequently now." "The one where you drop me into a pit where I'm impaled by my own sharpened brushes because I won't stop complaining about 'the process' of being an artist?" "Aye, And thee?" "Yeah, last night I dreamed you drowned in your own tea as you went on about the mets... if you'd kept from talking about them you wouldn't have swallowed it, but you couldn't or wouldn't" "Well, nice to know I have conviction in such imaginings" "Oh always that" "Earl" "Yes?" "We need our own rooms from time to time" "Sigh I realize that now"