Dear Diary,
I'm afraid I am gravely ill. It is perhaps times like these that one reflects on things past. An article of clothing from when I was young, a green jacket. A walk with my father. A game we once played. Pretend we're faeries. I'm a girl faerie. My name is Laura Lee. And you're a boy faerie and your name is Tita Lee. Pretend, when we're faeries we fight each other, and I say, "Stop hitting me, I'll die!" And you hit me again and I say, "Now I have to die." and then you say, "But I'll miss you." And I say, "But I have to. And you'll have to wait a million years to see me again. And I'll be put in a box, and all I'll need is a tiny glass of water and lots of tiny pieces of pizza and the box will have wings like an airplane." And you'll ask, "Where will it take you?"
"Home." I say.
--Synecdoche, New York
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8BgFTR4PjQ&feature=feedf