I am giving up writing because … #18

I’m afraid it works only if you’ve writ­ten The Catcher In The Rye, first.

Either that or a tra­gic sui­cide, though that might be going a bit far.

Sui­cide sounds quite defin­it­ive, though.

Good, this is all going pre­dict­ably well, but, as you know, this absence is a tricky busi­ness: for how­ever deep we dig ourselves in, how­ever far we run to hide, how­ever many pairs of dark glasses we pile, one upon another, to cover our eyes, to cre­ate the smokescreen, when does the moment of dis­ap­pear­ance begin? How is it measured—this absence—and who cov­ers our beguil­ing trail—not drop­ping a stitch—as we van­ish into the murky haze, become a phantom, as our mys­tery is neatly woven? Or could it be, there is a creature still to come? Remem­ber, that behind our dark glasses, the body utters everything that lan­guage hides.

You’ve been read­ing my mind again!

A bout of Con­sump­tion might add to this? I feel like enig­matic and hermit-ish artists a few hun­dred years ago really added a lot to their per­so­nas via Disease.

Lore — Ah, but maybe I *did* write Catcher In The Rye. Maybe. Pos­sibly. [Okay, I didn’t. I admit it.]

Ani — I tried leap­ing off a kerb earlier. Not in front of a car. Just into the gut­ter. Not exactly sui­cide. Although, with my balance …

Blath­er­skite — I am per­petu­ally absent. Even when I am here.

Jem — Oops. I must stop doing that.

Roberta — Hello and wel­come. Hmm, oh yes, a dis­ease from a few hun­dred years ago. I think you might have a good point.