It's going to end in a stabbing, W. says. Someone's going to stab me. I bring them on myself, W. says, the nutters and the weirdoes. I'm like a nutter-and-weirdo Messiah, W. says, which means I'm undoubtedly doing to get stabbed. He's always wondered what they see in me, these mad men and women. What draws them to me? Why is it me they pick out from the crowd? But they do pick me out. They follow me, buttonhole me, write incessant emails to me; he knows; I've shown them to him; they're terrifying.
More terrifying still is his role in all this. Is he a nutter? A weirdo? The worst of the nutters, the worst of the weirdoes, I tell him, which terrifies him all the more. Sometimes he thinks the whole world, the whole crazy world is nothing but a fever-dream of mine. The whole world – and him included, him, W., included, his thoughts being nothing other than my thoughts, his life a dream-muddled version of my own. Does he even exist, independently of me? Can he even lay claim to his own existence?
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