"Cripes," he moaned, grabbing a fistful of his own hair, "I don't understand how things work." He squirmed, turning his knee to meet hers, saying, "Do you know what Fitz says? He says we're all screwed up, we all think we're on TV."
She shook her head. "Poor Fitz. He almost got it right. See," hair falling down over her left eye again, her breath so close he could feel it on his face, "it's just that some people want very badly to be on TV. And they go nuts from frustration because they know they're not."
Matt blinked. "Why would anyone want to be in that stupid box?"
"Because!" grabbing his wrist. "It's easy to think your life doesn't mean anything unless someone draws lines around it. It's easy to think something's not real unless someone’s taken a picture of it."
"No,” bewildered, “this is no good. I want my life to mean something. I want to be real. Someone’s already taken your picture, Chloe. What if no one wants to take mine?"
"Uh-uh," grabbing his shoulder, sinking her nails in pretty good. “Now you’re just going the wrong way. Because once you’ve got the picture that made you real, your picture can't be real till someone takes a picture of it. See?"
He grabbed his head, shook it.
"It's a bad road," Chloe, unhanding him, giving a little shudder he felt against his thigh. "I'm telling you. Don’t go down it."
