Story, you're an archetype for me, a metaphoric scene in which a certain set of problems can be addressed and worked out, a nexus of perspectives in the laboratory of the stage.
Maybe you aren't a play at all, but a dialogue in the old menippean sense. Staging is one thing, but you'll be okay. You'll be okay either way ma petite piece.
Roger: Eventually we'll just stop talking to one another. We'll sit here kicking stones in the dust. For awhile maybe at each other, but then just to see the dust rise and then not at all. At point does society stop being society? Was it yesterday when we could still laugh with each other? Or right after the event when we were still hoping there'd be other? Or is it just a pure numbers game?--We're fine right now, but if we lose another, that'll be the end of it. Or maybe if we just keep talking...if I filibuster...filibuster the future...
Abigail: The year is 2525. When the bombs fell we weren't ready...we hadn't expected it...at first we thought we were the lucky ones to have survived...by pure luck...by pure change...but now we know, the lucky ones went first...fast...crossed over into the unknown without all this tugging and gnawing at their own hide.
Abigail: The year is 2525. When the outbreak started, we figured the government would handle it. They always had, we had some unexplored faith in that. And when it spread we weren't ready. We hid in our cupboard and under the floors. We whispered prayers in the night, in our silent exultations as the bodies of the diseased slumped by overhead.
Abigail: The year is 2525. When the alien extermination force came, we weren't ready. It was quick...too quick. Some they rounded up into camps, or we assumed they did. But all they wanted was our death, our total absence in the universe. Jealous lovers of the universe.
Janet: Abby. Quit it. I don't think it's funny to make light of it.
Abigail: Too soon?
Markus: Too soon. Not soon enough?
