No shit. [ It spills out of him, no venom, no heat, unsteady almost to the point of laughter. He'd told her—buildings wrung together, everything like the contents of a spilled drawer. It hardly seems to matter now, chastising her. Talking—the words seem as inert as the hunk of metal transmitting them. ]
I just. You. You're the same, right? You're not carrying it around. [ He does laugh, a cracked-sounding noise. ] The nothing.
no subject
I just. You. You're the same, right? You're not carrying it around. [ He does laugh, a cracked-sounding noise. ] The nothing.