Attenberg Page #3

It's as if we were designing ruins.

As if calculating their eventual

collapse...

with mathematical precision.

Bourgeois arrogance.

Especially for a country

that skipped...

the industrial age altogether.

From shepherds to bulldozers,

from bulldozers to mines, and

from mines, straight to...

...petit-bourgeois hysteria.

We built an industrial colony on top

of sheep pens...

and thought we were making

a revolution.

A small revolution.

I like it.

It's soothing, all this uniformity.

Because deep down you're an

optimistic bourgeois modernist.

Bourgeois.

Bonjour, bourgeois.

Bonjour, bourgeois.

Fright.

Flight.

Fight.

Bite.

Bright.

White.

Light.

Night. Sight.

Light.

Shite.

Sh*t.

Sit.

Seat.

Beat.

Bat.

Bet.

Bed.

Bled.

Dead.

Basically, you're eaten by the worms.

They start with the eyes.

They're the softest.

Then they go in through

the nostrils.

They get inside. They burrow.

After a while only

your skeleton is left.

Do we have to talk about this?

It upsets me.

I prefer not to go through it.

Anyway you always told me that

architects would burn in hell.

I'm trying to fend off your macabre

pronouncements with bad jokes.

I'm not ready.

I need your help to escape

the worms.

I hate those f***ing worms.

If we lived somewhere else we

wouldn't be having this discussion.

Here, we have to arrange it through

some kind of provider.

Provider of what?

Alternative funerals.

A funeral home for alternative

Christians who are scared of worms.

Exactly.

The worms devour you. All that

remains are bones.

Then you're dug up. Packed in a

tin box and placed on a shelf.

And then they bury someone else

in your allotted space.

Urban planning for the dead.

Do I have to send you away?

Abroad?

Yes.

And once...

once you're there... what happens next?

What do I do?

They'll send me back to you...

and you'll scatter my ashes in the sea.

Which sea?

This one here.

You've thought of everything.

I'm sorry if I'm shocking you.

What shocks me is that you plan

things without me,

and then announce them in the end.

It's not the end yet.

Right.

Do you like it?

You don't have to constantly

ask me.

Sorry.

Don't say sorry.

Sorry for saying sorry.

I don't exactly know what I'm doing...

but don't show me what to do.

It annoys me when people

show me what to do.

I'm not embarrassed.

You make me feel unembarrassed.

I feel good lying on top of you.

You smell great.

I can feel your cock but it doesn't

bother me.

I always thought that when the time

came, it would bother me.

Until recently I couldn't even say

the word "cock."

You're not hard.

No.

Why?

Interview over?

Yes.

Can you keep quiet for two minutes?

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes