It's either the Cowboy Junkies album or the Natural Born Killers soundtrack, I'm guessing the latter since you physically cannot put an Alabama Thunderpussy CD on the same shelf with a Cowboy Junkies CD, but either way: "Sweet Jane." She's waiting in the alley for her drug connection to come, and thinking of ways to get back home. It's all we're ever doing.
"The Earth is a living organism... Makes weather, which is good for us... Plants give us the chemicals we need." He focuses on her, finally: he knows she's right about this, he's felt it, it's what he wants. It's what the V relates to him, every time: that all we are is nature, connected and full of life, God kissing herself like holy palmer's kiss, and he nods. That purity is a failed concept and a broken machine, which means we are all pure. "Everything is connected. But you know that." He nods, and begins to talk. About Sookie, his parents, and the movements of leviathans, changing the world below its skin. Talking about Adele, finally.
"Yeah... I don't like how they keep taking stuff away. Like Pluto's not a planet anymore and a brontosaurus stopped being a dinosaur." Amy is taken with his folksy wisdom; she doesn't notice him explaining this entire show, and story: "You can't say something stopped being what it's always been." Because that, too, is the ending of the world: the sun comes up on something different.
"Do you live by yourself?" He nods, and makes a sad, funny face: "Come on, let's do the V!" She assumes the posture of guide, tarot reader, but she's not a guide: it's in the eyes. She's just a girl whose world has ended, who thought herself into Armageddon with that powerful, flexing muscle of her brain, and thinks this is how you put it back together. Thinks that because it feels good, it must be the answer. The only way out is through, but making a religion of your addiction like this, it's saying: The only way out is to never leave. See, this is why I don't date boys like this because instead of Sarah McLachlan it's Sigur Rós, and I'm sorry but when I say "what language is this" and you say "it's made up language" you better be talking about Cirque de Soleil or some shit because if you're going to get that gay that fast you might as well go all the way.
"So the blood it carries oxygen to our organs, right? And that's what makes them function. So it keeps us going. It's like gas in a car engine." She lays out her works, her mortar and pestle, her flat scrying mirror, athame and vial full of blood. "Vampires, they don't need oxygen. Everything just runs directly off the blood." Jason nods, comparing it to "those cars that run on corn," and she smiles, noting that the blood is old, so she's gotta take some simple chemistry steps to keep it from coagulating. "Co-ag-u-lating," Jason says quietly to himself, because he is totally adorable. She puts two large tablets of aspirin in the mortar; he is drawn in by the sight of the blood as she puts one little drop on each. "You just know this is what Holy Communion is symbolic of. This is the real deal here. None of that lame-ass empty ritual." No ritual is empty. She grinds the pills against the stone, crushing them for the spell. It's relatively pomo, I'll give her that, but she's just aping the empty rituals before the empty rituals she's making fun of. If you you're your connection to the symbols and start wanting the "real deal," you are in danger, because the point of metaphors is to catch the leviathan gliding by, and to say, "This is what that felt like, translated through another dimension," and touching the real thing -- instead of its shadow, or marking its movement -- is how you get possessed in the first place. All magic is substitution magic, because we can't afford to get our hands dirty.