Laura: I like flowers.
Sam: Indeed? What do you like about them?
L: I like their innocence.
S: They are nothing but beguiling, bewitching little scoundrels!
S: Yes. Their society is abrupt. How quickly they wither away! To me flowers signify death.
L: I was adorned in carnations on our wedding day. Don't you remember?
S: So was my Father on his very own funeral - lying very dead among those dead flowers. My Father and everything about him smelt like shit.
L: You are a monster!
S: Am I?
L: How could you talk rot about your own Father?
S: He is dead, anyway.
L: So are you!
S: Am I?
L: [Sobs] Yes. Death is the erosion of faculties. You are dead.
S: Death is the culmination of life. I'm alive!
L: You may be alive, but your soul is dead!
S: What soul? Have you seen it? You see me standing before you in flesh and blood. And that's the truth.
L: As the quality of the smell emanating from a flower helps you deduce whether it's living or dead, so does that emanating from an individual helps me assess his vitality. A flower's soul is its fragrance; a human's soul, his demeanour, his values, his ethics, his morality. How does the outer garb matter anyway? All flowers smell good; and individuals like you, stink!
S: O my good woman, my mayflower!
L: Don't dare plant your mouth on my face. My fragrance too will wither away, soon.
S: Let me enjoy it as long as it lasts.
L: Get away from me.
S: You smell like flowers. Let's dance.
L: The breeze choreographs a flower's dance and carries its fragance far and away. You become enamoured. You want to keep it forever. You nip it off only to find that it has started sinking into oblivion. You inhale its fragrance for one last time before it extinguishes forever.
S: Let's make love.
(c) All rights reserved, 2012 by Ratandeep Satwant Singh. Please visit me at DeadwoodEdition.com