Man, you are like a living, breathing Pink Floyd album!
Sitting there, easy chair, hard feeling. Man, them thoughts burn a hole right through you, if you let it!
I should have took you to golf. I should have, I know. You know I worry about you. I might be the only one that cares.
But I can call you back off of that ledge, now, can't I?
That girl and what she did. Shut up! I can't take anymore! You'll drive me mad, too!
A sound? A counting? I've heard it before, too, in the night, when the house is silent and still, the sound comes to me through the ringing of white noise. It's the heart we both thought we lost, and it beats still. It lives.
No, I'm not trying to scare you.
We shouldn't play with dead things? I must disagree, and I know you don't agree. You think so much on those dead epochs and bloody battles. I don't have to tell you. You know the substance of all your mad thoughts: these things that consume you.
Maybe something dead wants to play with us? Okay, maybe I am trying to scare you, now. Sit down. You're lying; you don't have to bathroom at exactly this very moment when the hour is getting late and the talk is getting heavy in its importance.
Imagine a heart, drained, but still beating away, lying on the cold damp earth beneath this very house! Disembodied, yes! And why? Because its just an emblem, my friend; the owner of that heart is long gone.
Very well. If you must. I've become tiresome. I've worked you into a fervor at these hints of the past-a dead past, that is.
I'll give you your peace, if only until you awaken again in the morning, in the cool, silent house.