Only W. listens to me, really listens, he says. Of course, I don't know what I'm saying, not really, says W. I'm not really aware. But in the calmest of conversations, I'm like a witchdoctor whose eyes have rolled backwards in his skull. When I speak of nothing at all, I'm like a pentecostalist writhing on the floor.
But that's when the apocalypse speaks most deeply in me. That's when it resounds, the truth of the end times, of the end of the world.
And who is he, W. – the Pythia to my Oracle? What is our significance, taken together?, W. wonders. Whose sign are we to interpret?
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