Dans Paris

Paul:
I think we grossly underestimate our sorrows, in general. We always die of sadness, actually.

Alice:
You mean sadness is put inside us at birth?

Paul:
Yes.

Alice:
Like eye color?

Alice:
Exactly. That's why it needs our care, but others can do nothing. No one can do anything about eye color. Also, I think it would be fair to let you take care of your sorrow alone.

Paul:
So we're out of love?

Anna:
Yes, Paul, we are.

Paul:
I don't know what's happening. I don't trust myself when I'm in love. I get nervous and say the wrong things or I start examining, evaluating, calculating what I say. I say "Think it will rain?" She responds, "I don't know." Then I wonder if she's even interested. It all scares me to death. Yes, scared to death. A friend once told me having a f*** buddy is better than falling in love. I think he's right. Rain makes flowers grow and snails happy. That's a fact. But if a girl loves me she starts acting strangely, like asking me funny questions and pouting when I snap at her or saying things like "Think it will rain?" and I say "I have no idea" and she says "Oh" and gets all sad looking up at the California-blue sky. That makes me thank god it's you, darling. This time it's your turn.

Anna:
I know you love me. That's the difference between us.

Paul:
How can you know I love you? How can you be sure?

Anna:
Before I followed you inside this hole, I lulled myself to sleep repeating "Paul loves me." I said it out loud hundreds of times, like a prayer. Meaningless words. We hardly knew each other. But something came about, something established. I believed you loved me. I had faith in your love. This belief never left me. We can pray to be loved by only one person. It's not the worst way to save a soul. You never prayed for my love. You never needed my love.