Like Sunday, Like Rain

& Raj: Six letters to «nothing more».
    Reggie: «Merest».
    Raj: «Merest»?
    Reggie: M-E-R-E-S-T. Mere. Only, nothing or something besides specified. «Merest» is your answer.

& Eleanor: It’s what to do when grow up?
    Reggie: When I grow up?.. No.
    Eleanor: Why not?
    Reggie: Why not? Well. First of, Let’s see. First of, the prospect of ending up like a lonely drunk doesn’t like appeal to me. Not to mention, that art, as a language, is dead. Does not matter that you have to say or how well you might be able to say it... it’s dead.
    Eleanor: Kind of a black view.
    Reggie: Yes, it is.

& Eleanor: What will we suppose to do for the next six weeks?
    Reggie: This is New York City, kid. There’re lots things to do here, trust me.

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& Eleanor:This is weird. It’s so weird, Reggie.
    Reggie: Yes, well, this is my life. Welcome to the weirdness. I’m just trying to navigate across towards safety and sanity the best I know how.

& Eleanor:Look, I just do not want to worry about it. Don’t even think about it, OK?
    Reggie: OK. I will not worry about it. I’m not worry about it. But I can’t guarantee I will not think about it. That’s what I do: I think about things. It’s my nature.
    Eleanor:Fine. You can think.

& Reggie: What made you leave? Your whole family’s here.
    Eleanor:You just answered your own question.

& Eleanor:What is the name of that piece you wrote for the recital?
    Reggie: «Like Sunday, like rain.»
    Eleanor:It’s so beautiful.

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