How many times is it going to take until you realize how good you’ve got it? No, don’t pick up the guitar and start playing music. You’re no musician. You’re a writer. So write! That’s what I’m doing, isn’t it? Who the fuck am I talking to? I swear, it’s like there’s a million different voices in my head having a conversation that I’m not whatsoever involved in. How can I be having a conversation with myself? How am I ever to know which of the voices to listen to? Don’t listen to any of them. Then what? Do I just sit here writing about the sound of a million different voices? Who would ever want to read about that? I don’t know, maybe people who know what a million different voices sounds like. But if they already know what it sounds like, why the fuck would they want to hear what you have to say about it, or even go so far as to read something you’ve written on the godforsaken subject? I don’t know, maybe they just want something to relate to. I mean, isn’t that all everybody is trying to do, anyway? At least, I know that’s what I’m trying to do. That may be, but isn’t it going to be difficult truly relating to anybody when all you do is sit by yourself all day writing about how you’d like to relate to people? That’s sort of the jab-in-your-own-nuts conclusion you come to at the end of the novel, isn’t it? The part about Teddy looking up from his book. That’s the whole writer joke, isn’t it? “Put down this fucking book and go live your life,” is the point you’re trying to get across at the end, isn’t it? Well, that’s part of it, I guess. There’s also everything else. Teddy’s sickness. The indelibility of memory to die. Indebility isn’t a word. Don’t you think I know that? Of course I do. We’re both the same person, so you know everything I do. How is it that we’re able to argue like this so constantly, then? I guess we’re just different parts of the same person that, in such recurrent amplitude and frequency, come to a medium over time.