Input.
Company: This is your life. If you want it to change, change it.
Misery: Do you think my life is falling apart?
Company: No, but I think you're okay with letting it.
She's playing with her cell phone and leaning over him. She's talking a mile per minute and he can't remember her name. God, what was it? Polly? Pamela? There was something with a P. Patricia? She's talking about nothing and it's funny because it's noise, so different from the kind he's been hearing on the TV. It's noise. Sound. He knows she's there but he's not focused, his drink is in his mind. Is she really talking about something she saw on TV? Something she's applying to life? Does she even hear herself? He can't even read his watch, he doesn't know how long he's been there and as the music pounds into his chest he realizes he doesn't really give a shit. Because where he is is better than where he's spent the last week. On the sidewalk. In bed. A bar. A club. Wasn't he just in a store. What did he even buy? Where did any of that come from? Where did he meet this one again? Was he in the park with his dog? How long had she been talking?
Company: Maybe you don't want it to change.
Misery: Maybe I don't.
Forget it. You don't need it. People care about you. It's not the end of the world. Stop dwelling. You could be happy. If you wanted. You knew it already. We all knew. Would you rather just have it and be miserable? There are other people. What are you doing? Move on. Have fun. Meet new people. Do things that make you happy. Get back on the wagon. Are you drunk? You know what to do. Just do it. Do it. Do it. What's wrong? What's wrong?
Company: What do you want most? Out of life?
Misery: Love.
Company: You're a liar.
I know.
He sent her away. She fell into him. He told her how to take it. She accepted. And now she confides. She's over his shoulder. He's reading. She's whispering. He's laughing. He turns to face her. She tells him more. Her eyes. Her mouth. His hands. On her. Them.
Company: You shouldn't do that. You don't know.
Misery: But I can tell.
Company: You shouldn't.
You caught fireflies during the summer, maybe when you were a kid. They're in jars and you know that you have to let them go eventually. Or maybe you just let them die. Stamped air openings won't do anything to keep them alive. They don't want to be in something make-shift. They deserve to live and die on their own. You have to release them, even though you know you'll probably lose them somewhere out there. You hope for more, but once the cold's set in and the heat's let up. They're gone like you expected.
He feels sick and the noise is suddenly violent in his head. She looks up at him. She shoves his arm. "Are you listening?" He wasn't. But he tells her with disconnect, "Yeah. I know. Spiderman's a lot like life."
Company: Don't be mad.
I'm not.