Ext. A Thicket of Underwood, Copenhagen- 1842
GYTHA and LAURITZ stand sympathetically under the constellation Cassiopeia, clasping their hands and rubbernecking the heavens.
GYTHA: (Reverentially) The sky is blue tonight.
LAURITZ: (Appreciative, complaisant) You’re right, Gytha. The sky is blue tonight.
GYTHA: (Suddenly struck by nausea and gall) No, Lauritz, the sky is not blue, the sky is red!
LAURITZ: (Frightened, gentle, seeking to conciliate) But you just said the sky was blue…
GYTHA: (Snappish) Everyone else understands me. I talk to people all day long. It’s your problem, not mine.
The lovers sulk into the moonlight as a supernatural windstorm makes a maelstrom of the falling leaves and mincemeat of their beating hearts. Forthwith, their ashes scatter in the atmosphere to be resurrected by unsuspecting bodies in the faraway future resulting in the constant headache that is the blip on the time continuum representing my meager days on this fine, rocky, oblate Earth.