"My favorite aunt! If you knew my travails...."
"The work and shove of the young? The efforts unending to start a new way?"
"Au contraire. It is not so funny with us, my aunt. We, though small, have serious concerns. Death and affliction of limb are not unknown to us, nor strange, nor even unusual, ever. Scents bear more than one message. Sights are the rowdiest cousins of pain. Aunt, you mustn't make mock of our dusk."
"Dusk? Dusk you invoke?"
"Dusk the beseecher. Dusk the screaming beseecher to follow, to death."
"My child, the work of adult is most sultry."
"Not worse than the work of small child."
"Dusk is the time when adult gazes weeping over fields usurped and abandoned, pledges to keep out of trouble in future, but knows that all time is a ribbon. To start a new way is impossible now; we must repose in pleasure."
"We have only change: change the unbearable death every second, change that corrupts the last minute's light, stupid, stupid change. How could you envy the maelstrom child? unholy whirlwind kid?"
"And dusk? Such melancholy in a time of day?"
"Your melancholy would be joy for us. Dusk for us is new deaths giving birth to deaths unimaginable, which will swoop and tempt and finally eat in the morning. So at night, to forestall deaths' eat, we like our rooms cheerful; pillows cost money, curtains cost money, all the soft things and fun, mean toys cost money, but money is only one death, one death at the seat of our nights' survivability, which we accept. Money is easy for us to accept, that is one problem we do not have."
"Would you like to go to the Superbowl?"
"The Superbowl I do not like, my aunt, my favorite aunt. But chocolate is good!