Ooh, I love this bit.

Here's where I'm at in the editing of The Brakan Correspondent. For those of you who haven't heard me talking about this, the Huurans are wingless birds with arms and hands. That's all the set-up you need. The alarm was especially loud for those unfortunate enough to be stationed ten feet from the speakers. “You wanna check that out?” said the cock named Govil. “Nuh-uh. You?” said his partner, the one they called Bard. “One of us oughta. You see anything on the monitors?” Bard shook his head and passed Govil a small spiral notepad. “This one’s a keeper,” said Bard. “I feel it in my blood.” Govil read the wide, childish scrawl: Spring is the croolest month. Sigh! “Croolest, eh?” said Govil. “I like that. You gonna put some torture in it?” Bard snagged the notepad and gave Govil an injured look. “It ain’t about torture. It’s about the essential emptiness of the Huuran spirit.” Govil clucked and studied the monitors. Boring, every single one. And still that damned alarm kept screaming like an eastside hen in heat. “It’s a shame,” he said, flicking the switch that killed the alarm. “I would read a poem about torture. Anyway, how come you only write first lines? That’s all I ever see outa you.” “It’s cuz that first line’s so important. A poem from the heart, first line to last, it has to go on and on like it can’t go no other way.” “A sense of inevitability?” said Govil. “Whatever.” Something flickered on the monitor for loading dock B. “You see that?” said Govil. “What?” “Ah, fluff it. We can both check it out.” D.