He's sitting beside the guy now, glancing at the mask without giving the stranger any kind of extended look. The Photojournalist has learned the hard way that it's better not to stare out here. (Better not to stare anywhere. Kurtz had almost driven him away for looking just a little too long, pitched a shoe at him and sent The Photojournalist running for cover. Shit, he never should have left. The man had a temper, but he meant something. Knew things. And he echoes always in The Photojournalist's head.) Instead, he looks at the bottle in his hand, fiddles with his camera, stares off into nothing.

"Oh, you're the silent type, huh? I can dig that. Uhhh, never could stick to it, myself. Every time I try it's like, it's like give me thirty seconds and BOOM, running my mouth again." He laughs, a trailing, uncertain sound, and takes another drink.

"Whooooee, that's good stuff. I haven't had anything to drink all day. Or, uh... Maybe yesterday, either. Hehh, the days all fade together, don't they? I tell you, man, it's a weird world we live in. A weird weird world."