The light fades in the late afternoon. There's a coin on the carpet near the fireplace. The head is facing up. The tail of the coin says, "Where am I?"
   "Well I know where I am," the head says. "I don't know where you are."
   "Shh. I'm trying to figure out where I am."
   "I don't even know who you are."
   "Be quiet."
   The head stares up at the room around him. There's no one there. A painting of a mountain hangs on the wall over the fireplace. "Do you know who Dirk Bogard is?" the head says to the tail.
   "Yes. So it looks like another afternoon of nothing at all. Absolutely nothing again. They write poems about it. 'Poor me, I'm nothing at all.' But that's nothing compared to this. This is nothing. You need to know something before you can understand nothing. They know next to nothing. Their nothing is just a small step from everything in their minds. They step down into nothingness and it's two inches below everything, and they ask themselves, 'Am I a little bit smaller than I was two seconds ago?' Our nothing is a chasm beneath us, always there."
   "So who is he?"
   "What?"
   "Who's Dirk Bogard?"
   "We're nothing at all, and they think they're everything but they're less than us. We're like sheep to them, or furniture. How could they ever cope with this. The blackness would be bearable if I didn't have the light in my mind. In my mind I see a room. I'm standing at the door, looking back into the room, and I say, 'I am going there now... I'm gone... I said "I'm gone".' While I'm still waiting at the door, I'm over in the other room, sitting on the sofa, chatting with Irene. 'I'm gone, you know.' She nods, but I get the impression that she doesn't know what I'm talking about. 'I said "I'm gone".' She just stares blankly back, but in fairness, I wasn't entirely sure who I was talking to when I said that. And I don't know who I'm talking to now. No one, I suppose. Myself. No one."
   The head smiles. He had never thought he was as important as furniture before.