Single-sided, a lot of them. One-versations. Nobody talking back, or you to yourself. Years, decades of dialogue, monologue. Thousands, tens of thousands of words. Millions. And who gives a fuck? You don’t yourself but that doesn’t stop the words battering round the inner wall of your skull. Aye you do. It would be good to have someone to talk to. Croick, maybe. Even Canterbury. Somebody who actually understands where you’re coming from. But Croick’s dead and Canterbury’s God knows where. In some care home for the politically deranged maybe. Or a cottage in rural Britannia pruning his roses. Never knew exactly how old either of them were, but Canterbury must be close to ninety if he’s not beyond it. If he isn’t dead too. Ach he’ll be dead, surely? Lots of other people are definitely still alive but you can’t speak to lots of other people. You’re a ghost. You made yourself a ghost some time ago. You’re on the other side of an invisible something. People see you but they don’t speak to you, and you can’t speak to them.
