There’s a sense of theft.
[He's sitting on the floor with a guitar in his lap, picking at the strings as he talks. (His right hand is a bit stiff, it seems, but he certainly knows what he's doing.) On a wall just in view behind him are tacked a series of notebook pages, thankfully too neat and sparse to be a proper wall-of-crazy.]
Your life. Everything you've worked for. Your career, your reputation. Your sense of -- of personhood, if you're real lucky. And you're just... expected to deal with it. You move on, or you try to, you start fucking over, 'cause you don't have a choice. You're told. No recourse to the law. To steal a phrase. [Bitter smile.] You don't wanna think about it too hard, 'cause it won't change anything. But that doesn't make it better.
[The playing seems to be coalescing into -- something, anyway, meandering variations on
a particular riff.]
Not really going anywhere with this, if you were wondering. Though I have got a question.
If there's anyone who's been here for a while, who's an artist or performer -- 'specially if you're published -- you ever had problems with things disappearing on you?
[Private to Oswald Cobblepot]
Mr. Cobblepot? We spoke last month. If you're still looking for talent? I've got two acts you won't wanna pass on.
[ Private to Ziggy Stardust, a couple hours later]
Mate. You'll want to find yourself a guitar sooner, rather than later.