Man: [Waters flowers, gives tortoise fresh water] Hi, little turtle. Tortoise.
Tortoise: You’re a little close to my rock, you’re making me nervous.
Man: Sorry. [Steps away from rock]
Tortoise: Hey, nice shoes!
Man: I… carry on, don’t let me distract you.
Tortoise: You have any more of that lettuce? For once I finish here? What’s up, you look down in the dumps.
Man: No, nah. I’m fine. I have time on my hands, is all. Just not infinite time, so I’m forced to prioritize my goof-off agenda, which re-stresses me.
Tortoise: Have you vaccuumed?
Man: Just finished.
Tortoise: Made the bed?
Man: Eh, yeah, sure I made the bed.
Tortoise: Decided what to cook on Sunday and done the shopping?
Man: I’ll do that tomorrow.
Man: I mean, should I play the cello, fire up the theremin, try to compose something, record something, write something?
Tortoise: Have you weeded the vegetable garden?
Man: I did that last week.
Tortoise: It grows back, you know. Mowed?
Man: I’m putting that off until tomorrow, in the hopes that it rains and gives me an excuse not to.
Tortoise: Respect. [Stares at man]
Tortoise: Did you really make the bed?
Tortoise: If I were you, I would write an erotic novel entitled Transit of Venus.
Man: I think that’s been done.
Tortoise: Can’t copyright titles, dude.
Man: Plus, aren’t you supposed to write what you know?
Tortoise: I would totally write it, but I’m busy.
Man: Maybe I will try to come up with a name for the musical genre in which I compose. Unfortunately creepcore is taken.
Man: Hrm. Nice.
Tortoise: Don’t mention it.