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I no longer have the capacity to feel anything. I have no emotions. I have been drained, torn asunder disemboweled. I have, now, only my person, my body, my face. I use what I have I let people love me I accept the syntax around me, for while I know I cannot relate; I know I must be related to.

The Young Man recounts his history of losses to Grandma toward the end of the play. His tale, staged in a manner so solemn as to be sacred, opens a hiatus within the play's violent, careening conversational games. Bound indissolubly to his lost twin, the Young Man experiences losses complimentary to those his brother suffers. His brother's blindness ends his ability to see with pity. Recall that this brother assumedly suffers his disfigurement under a tyrannical Mommy, who turns the disciplining of his bodily excesses and infantile desires into a mutilation. The ultimate murder of the Young Man's twin disembowels him, robbing him of feeling and leaving him with his typically beautiful person, body, and face. As he tells Grandma, he is a type. Gutted of his interior life, he cannot relate to anyone but knows others must relate to him. He accepts the syntax of others. Indeed, perhaps his emptiness, and his being a type, allows him to fit into this syntax smoothly. Thus this incomplete Man will provide Mommy and Daddy with the satisfaction that his unruly double could not.

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