A pair of young women sit beside him, cased guitars at their feet. They could be twins or lovers, he’s not sure, but they have clearly spent years in the same home, stepping over each other to get to their lives. “We have all this stuff, and yet we’re still so sad,” says one to the other. “Why don’t you write a fucking screenplay about it.” “Don’t be a bitch.” “Don’t be a cartoon.” “Of what?” “Of a millennial.” “Your dog is at a spa!”
