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i wrote this in a depressive spiral and now i'm out of that spiral and i don't know how to finish this

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"I desperately want to call every single person I've ever been friends with, fake friends. But I've never had any real friends to begin with. I'm not even sure that those terms even apply to me. Because you know what? It's based on comparison. One exists because the other does. It's based on observation and science— science, man. Research. Isn't that what I'm here for?"


"Maybe the O5 were right. Maybe I am better alone. Maybe my transfer here all the way to the south fucking pole means something. Maybe it means, and I'm pretty sure it means, thar I'm better off alone."


"I don't even know why you're here. You flew all the way down here to see me of all people but we barely know each other. I don't think we're friends of any definition. I have no use for you and you have no use for me."


A pause.

"What... do you think, the definition is, Edison?"

"People that... are good for each other. Like— like you, good at math. I would be friends with you at school, I think. I'm bad at math."

"And what good do you have, so I will be friends with you?"
"What do you think I have?"

"I asked you first."
"I... I. I don't. See, this is why I don't have friends. I'm kinda useless here, buddy."

"You tell good stories."
"I tell good stories."

King wanted to strangle Edison so bad.

"Now tell something good about yourself, without my help."
"...I. I think I look good. Blue eyes."

"Something you chose for yourself, maybe?"
"I like how I dress. I look cool."

"Something non-physical?"
"Uh. I guess I can play guitar?"

"You play guitar?"
"Wanna hear?"

"Yeah. That would be nice."