Cecily: Sup, genetic other half? I’m reading Russian literature that I think you might enjoy. It goes like this:

‘One day Orlov stuffed himself with mashed peas and died. And Krylov, on finding out about this, also died. And Spiridonov died of his own accord. And Spiridonov’s wife fell off the sideboard and also died. And Spiridonov’s children drowned in the pond. And Spiridonov’s grandmother hit the bottle and took to the road. And Mikhailovich stopped combing his hair and went down with mange. And Kruglov sketched a woman with a whip in her hands and went out of his mind. And Perekhrestov received four hundred roubles by wire and put on such airs that he got chucked out of work. They are good people all — but they can’t keep their feet firmly on the ground.’

Delilah: Daniil Kharms, you sexy, sexy man. I think I’m in love. I feel the need to purchase a calabash pipe.

Cecily: I just met a Russian who smokes one. He’s a concert pianist doing his dissertation here.

Delilah: On what? And… does he in any way resemble Aragorn? And… if so, does he wear long cloaks and sit in the back of bars and smoke and brood?

Cecily: On Mahler. Yes. Yes.

Delilah: Jesus. You’re a venus fly trap for flying clichés.

Cecily: They creep up on me like algae, along with mixed metaphors and semicolons.

Delilah: Indeed. Like syphilis on an English restoration satirist.