‘What are these? What are they? Tell me!’ Bertrand has been in this body too long. It has become enfeebled like his mind. He has developed a soul, as these unwitting fools call it. Thus, it is impossible not to sympathize with the boy. ‘None of it is real, none of it,’ he says, forcefully dragging his voice out of whatever dark pit into which it has retreated. He will lie with the truth. ‘They are but things in my head. I-I see things. Things I cannot escape.
