SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Will you know though?
BIG BIRD: Probably not. Not if it’s done right.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: So it’ll just happen? Just like that?
BIG BIRD: Yep. And we don’t speak above whispers on street corners.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: No. I know. Not yet. Not here.
BIG BIRD: Sure. So there is still the problem of ecumenical concerns.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Nobody will care.
BIG BIRD: Don’t be so sure.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Appreciation happens. Though when it doesn’t, well, it hampers the circumstances somewhat, but that’s okay, right?
BIG BIRD: Okay enough for our situation here.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: That’s good to know.
BIG BIRD: What we know. What we don’t know. Is there really a difference?
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: As one could count with one’s thumbs the good-natured hostility that springs from vespertine trashcan lids early enough to be goldenly lit.
BIG BIRD: Just as so.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Be little. Be strong. Be culpable too. The utmost of leather-jacketed desire trumpets poppycock. We can have folded hands in the end. We will be still.
BIG BIRD: Stillness is a careful thing.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Pressures happen. Take pity on the fair-weathered and the furiously annoyed. We need yelps like a math teacher needs an abacus.
BIG BIRD: Hugs and hand-me-downs and bored stems of curiosity are the roots of our spindly tree, this wishy-washy thing that braves crisp, clear mornings and fords impassable rivers.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Sure. We don’t require much. Maybe a gorgeous mirror, and maybe some jimson weed to quell a rebellion now and again. But, with empty pockets, be wary of your sweet tooth while being lifted up to paradise, because stealing candy bars can become an addiction.
BIG BIRD: Today this. Tomorrow the treasure of the Sierra Madre. And then, possibly, while we are flush with purloined significance, there will be other days under the sun, our days in the sun, but then, also, nights under the moon, nights in darkness.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Nothing serious. Just a quickie in the backseat. And the whistle blows. And the world is not round. And suddenly the turncoats are coming for their fly-by-night prey. We must make amends. We must not always forgive.
BIG BIRD: Here there goes again.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Believe in kindly assassinations. Swear allegiance to empty space. Give a good going over to the already harassed.
BIG BIRD: There here is a comin’ round the bend.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: I once had a fear, or should I say it once had me.
BIG BIRD: It’s all a going that never gets anywhere. It’s shaky hands. It’s a dizzy spell. It’s autumn leaves.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: It’s a mood that never changes.
BIG BIRD: And the shades that are missing? Well, we each have our own unique set of blues. The mind gives up without an example set before it, but at least it does try a little at first.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Let us never alter our boggled and ill-concocted maxim. We are brave men to strive behind such things.
BIG BIRD: Look! The twilight’s still gleaming!
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Fuck off.
BIG BIRD: Just filling in the blank. There is no room between things. Everything takes up space with its shape. I will curve my thoughts to new ways of bending. I will substitute. I will amend.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: A deal that doesn’t pay off. Conception is a tricky counterpoint to use as a ruse for misrepresenting the substance of what might not be real in the first place.
BIG BIRD: That logic does not exist to me. This is its initial coronation in my mind. We must rub the dust from forethought before what has never occurred is lost.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: A crown of pearly disenchantment is all you’ll ever wear if you go about your business thataway.
BIG BIRD: Now is later.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Shaw’nuff.
BIG BIRD: What a ready-or-not-here-I-come attitude you’ve adopted recently.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Just another instance of the foot that trampled trash because the head mistook rubbish for flowers.
BIG BIRD: You know it! Hypothetically speaking of course.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Of course. Rarely are we lost within a life composed so much of odds and ends. And of course of course is just another of course too.
BIG BIRD: On a mediocre day you could probably get me to agree with that. But Mr. Ed is dead, and the only song I hear fluting its way around here involves quarter notes or fifths.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Fluting? I’m not so sure that word means what you think it means. As when in one’s youth one pointed to a shirt and declared it dusty rose. No. I am mistaken. It was vermillion.
BIG BIRD: Oh yes. That old blindness toward affinity and love. The pure absence of color is nothing and all things at once.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Purity is a myth. Let’s go kick the shit out of Elmo.
BIG BIRD: Before lunch? I couldn’t stomach it on an empty stomach.
SNUFFLEUPAGUS: Pansy.
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