[ March groans. Probably, he should start to head inside. He’s too drunk to notice the lack of feeling in his toes at the moment. ]

Technicalities, technicalities. Forcibly left, then. We’re fucked, we’re here, we’re, what’s it--interloopers? Interlopers-- [ he flaps his hands. ] The point is we left our cozy little houses and our shitty jobs and our stupid lives and now we're here.

I'm running out of cigarettes already.