The conversation presently running through my head, 10:53pm

Judes (blurry-eyed, clearly needs to sleep): Oh! Hey blog... What's up?

Blog stands silent, turns it shoulders slightly to the left and looks at the ceiling.

Judes: What? What's wrong?

Blog: What's WRONG? Did you really just ask me what was wrong?

Judes: Well, yeah... I...

Blog (angrily): How dare you! You completely ignore me for months and then you just stroll in here like Caligula taking a pee break and expect everything to be OK?

Judes: Actually, I imagine Caligula just peed right in the middle of..

Blog: SHUT THE FUCK UP! You are completely missing the point. Again.

Judes (reaches out to touch Blog's arm, who walks away quickly and rests on the vintage Ice Cream freezer in the corner): I'm sorry. I didn't think... I didn't know that it would upset you this much.

Blog: For God's sake Judes. How could it not? Don't you remember how it was at first? You loved talking to me. We spent hours together, looking at what kind of weird shit we could find on the Internet. You did, you know. You loved talking to me. And we used to laugh. We laughed so much... but now that's all gone. It's just smoke. There aren't even any mirrors. It's all just smoke now. All because of that little bitch.

Judes (defensive): Hey. Just a fucking minute. Twitter is not a bitch.Twitter isn't anything. Well OK, no. That's not true. It's a friend, Blog. It's just a friend.

Blog (scoffing): If I spent that much time with my friends, I would have fucking killed them all and eaten the bodies... and we wouldn't have even been in the goddamn Andes! It's not normal!

Judes tries to find a witty response. He adjusts his collar. He shifts his weight uncomfortably. His mind is clearly racing.

Blog: Well?

Judes' mouth opens. Dry.

Blog: WELL????!?!?!

The Ice Cream machine awakens with a loud thud. They both jump. Dust dances in the pools of light around them.

Nobody speaks.

Blog: Jesus Christ. You're trying to find a way to say this with exactly 140 characters aren't you?

Blog storms off stage. The dull hum of the vintage Ice Cream machine fills the room like a Brian Eno record that somebody forgot to turn over.

Judes walks off into the darkness, a barely-audible "Seventy-eight...Seventy-nine..." cuts through the hum. Cuts through the silence.