A tropical modern building with an elevator. The name of a club in Brixton. A
definition of narrative that resists
complicated responses, because it's so
fucking cool.
"
What did you do on Saturday night?" "Oh, nothing much. Chucked back a few Malibu and Oranges, and all that." "Where did you go?" "Architecture 5." "Dude, that's really weird. That's where I went too." "No." "Yes!" "Shut up!" "No, seriously. I met this amazing, amazing guy. His name is Scott and when it was time to go, I heard this voice in my head, and it said, you have just met your future husband." "What, like a voice inside you or something you actually heard?" "
I don't know." "Wow." "Yeah." "But, I think you should take it easy. You've been through a lot lately." "I know, but...he was really cute." "Define cute." "
I don't know." "You're a little bit stupid, aren't you?" "What?" "Oh, I was just asking Terry where the olives were." "How is Terry, anyway?" "Terry! Terry, how are you?" "Fine." "He says he's fine."
