“Do you know what the first rule of playwriting is?” Cyrus shook his head, barely. Even allowing Gabe’s questions felt like a concession. “You never send a character onstage without knowing what they want.” Cyrus frowned. “I know what I want,” he said. “Do you?” Gabe was hunched over, his big palms flat on the round table making it look like a wooden dinner plate. “I want to matter,” Cyrus whispered. “You and everyone else. Deeper.” “I want to make great art. Art people think matters.” “Good. Keep going.” “Isn’t that enough?” Cyrus was exasperated. “Cyrus, everyone and their mailman believes
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