B. walks out. "I'm done," he says.
C. rips out the telephone jacks, smashes the components, scatters the pieces to the wind.
"It's better this way," he assures us.
E. diligently reads from his collection of self-help books.
"We must persist, we must trust in the future's desirability."
M. continues under the mistaken impression that lacerating his skin will trigger a flood of endorphins in his brain as compensation, thus pulling him (and, through psychick mystery, all of us as well) out of the umbra.
Will we, perchance, make it out to the....penumbra?
L. checks his access points obsessively, awaiting the next indication. "I could live on this for a few more years, maybe, or at least until Christmas."
Z. does as he always does, sitting patiently in the corner, pointing upwards to the bold black print of the awful sign and symbol.
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