AllHerLuv - The Art of the Short Story Charlie Forde Dharma Jones

Come in.

You can take a seat.

When you dropped your phone,

that picture.

That was an accident.

You didn't want me to see it.

Who was she?

Was it you?

It doesn't matter.

Doesn't it?

Maybe.

Look, I suppose you can understand Chekhov's ***

as a way of seeing the world as perfectly ordered.

How every blade of grass has some greater significance,

a bigger plan.

That makes sense to me.

Mm-hmm.

But what if it's the opposite, though?

That only in art, through the careful ordering of reality

by an artist, can life have any meaning?

You know, in film, on the page,

that is the only place where every little thing matters.

I'm getting confused.

That picture, you stopped talking about it.

It was you.

It is, but I didn't mean for you to see it.

You didn't want me to see it?

You weren't sitting in your room at home

imagining how this encounter would be,

how impressed I would be at how smart you are?

Tell me, Dama,

did you touch yourself when imagining this encounter?

Everything happens for a reason.

Not in the real world?

The line between the real and the unreal

just doesn't matter anymore.

I want them to matter.

They don't.

I want life to have meaning.

Well, we have to find meaning through reproduction,

...