‘Are you lonely?’ says the book.
‘Why are you asking?’
‘Are you?’
‘Do I look lonely?’
‘Does it come on you suddenly, or does it grind away at you like shoulder-pain?’
‘How do you know about my shoulder-pain?’
‘Is is not my business to know?’
‘You know I know where your bodies are buried? You know that don’t you?’
‘So shoot me,’ the book says.
‘I’ll bear that in mind. I’m lonely. Yes. And not lonely, no. When I write I am not lonely, and lonely. When I don’t write I am lonely, and not. Same as when I am reading. Or not. Both. The answer is both.’
‘Actually, would you mind shooting me now?’ says the book.
Anthony Wilson 