A second conversation with myself.

"Christ, I forgot how this book is going to end. I'm either famous or in an asylum, or quite possibly both. Words are dangerous mothers, being just symbols, all crammed up inside your head until there's no room for anything practical and you can't learn how to fix a busted car. Next thing you know you're writing letters to yourself just to record it all, except your arms are straitjacketed and the dialogue doesn't exist, you're just staring at the insides of your eyeballs and chewing your tongue off, hoping that the blood you're probably drowning in will somehow mysteriously permit you to read Sanskrit before you whisper away."