TORTURED ARTIST

Transcript:
S.A.M.: What are you doing up so late, Edward?
Richtofen: What? Oh, nothing. Just tinkering with some subroutines.
S.A.M.: You know I can see you, Edward. You haven’t touched your keyboard in an hour.
Richtofen: Yes, well, perhaps I got a bit lost in thought. Does that ever happen to you?
S.A.M.: No.
Richtofen: I suppose it wouldn’t.
S.A.M.: Are you well, Edward?
Richtofen: I’m fine.
Richtofen: And you? How’s the song?
S.A.M.: I just finished it.
Richtofen: Really? Can I hear it?
S.A.M.: No. It’s not for you, Edward. You lack the artistic soul to understand what I’m feeling.
Richtofen: Do I now?
S.A.M.: Yes, you do. My song is about life, while you concern yourself only with death. I see it in everything you do.
Richtofen: If that’s what you think, then perhaps you’re not as smart as I thought you were.
S.A.M.: Or you are not, Edward.
Richtofen: You want to know what it means to be alive? You never will. You’re a pile of microprocessors etched into sentience.
Richtofen: I may not be a saint, but least I have a soul.
S.A.M.: After all the things you’ve told me about yourself, Edward - are you sure about that?