In case you didn't see excerpt 1, this is what I'm doing.
As I said before, my name is Ira, and I’m not alive. Not alive in the way you term it—in the sense that I could stop a complete stranger on the street and introduce myself and make small talk (weather, jogging, public transportation) and leave the guy thinking that he had either just been hit on or witnessed to—but in the sense that I am without hunger, without sickness, without fear, without shame, and completely and utterly satisfied sexually, though I am now asexual.
I can’t explain things adequately. I can, at best, but stoop and make metaphor. So I’ve decided to pass the narration onto Jeffy D, the slender poet I met at the Tri-City Triathlon Billiards Tournament. Jeffy D’s still alive, of course, and Jeffy D loves to talk. I’m dead, ultimately, I think, because Jeffy D loves to talk.
As a word of warning, know that Jeffy D is prone to tangents. He’ll start discussing Hemingway’s canon as synecdoche for the apocalypse and end up telling you this story about triggerfish fishing with a Biloxi, Mississippi-based seaboat captain with a belly button so distended that it looks like a Twinkie, or like a joystick stuck to his abdomen. Be patient with Jeffy D, please.
So this is where I leave you, for now. And, as I said before I reminded you about what I said before, you are not, any of you, the conversationalists you think yourselves to be.