Irving Bailiff is such a character of all time. Marcus Aurelius, a reader that thinks self-induced insomnia through caffeine and Motörhead tapes is an effective tool to carry out an inside job. So certain that his stoic discipline will carry his grieving self and his innie through. He uses surrealist automatism (Not even muscle memory! The guy bets on the subconscious and dozing off!) because his art-guy pattern-finding ass thinks it’s the best way to reach his severed self. Because he is the kind of person to excise himself and still have opinions about which parts of him are fixed points in the self.

Meanwhile, Irving B. is falling asleep on the job he was created to do and having nightmares about black goo that he doesn’t even know is oil paint because his body is sleeping two hours a night, getting literally tortured because of it, feeling all-encompassing emotion about corporate propaganda, and developing a crush on the man who curates said propaganda. In a way, it also carries him towards an understanding of his own disposability and the kind of love that can’t be sold back to you in an allegory and art as a message, but at what cost. I respect an utterly out of touch guy obsessed with themes and motifs with profound resentment towards corporations and authority (T/N: Love it when it's a fictional guy; hate it when it's me).

outie Irving in a clandestine phone call: I found a map with a name in my pocket; my innie got the message.

innie Irving, realizing the man he fell in love with is truly dead and the bosses he worshipped killed him: I need to kill myself

me, covered in popcorn crumbs: Massive kudos for the task failed successfully. You might actually get where you wanted to in a way that will be indubitably aggravating for the both of you.