| Ron: |
Last Poems, eh? Aren't we talking about the final works of a bloke that croaked? |
| Lily: |
Maybe. The chronology is mixed up: some poems date from the 1970s, while others claim to be from the future. Perhaps several authors are involved. |
| Ron: |
Or simply one nut who claiming to travel through time. Another science fiction work, eh? |
| Linda: |
Nah. Chances are he was just trying to make sense of time. Writing and painting are attempts to do that, but ultimately nothing can. |
| Lily: |
The dude never really published. He worked without an audience, yet churned out hundreds of images and poems . . . that seems wonderfully absurd. |
| Lex: |
You don't understand writers well: nearly all of them are writing for themselves anyway. They have more than enough characters inside their brains that external audiences are unnecessary. |
| Ram: |
Actually, the whole universe is inside of us. |
| Ron: |
Cut the spiritual babble. Let's take a peek at this dude's stuff. |
| Linda: |
Why not? Time is ours for the moment . . . |
