I love to talk with myself just before I turn off the light and tuck myself in for the night. I usually sit crosslegged on my bed as I talk, but sometimes I recline Roman-style on my pillow. Like a madman, I gesticulate and I grimace as I whisper into the void in front of me. Although the talk never gets heated, it waxes and wanes as talk would. Even when I become excited by my discoveries, I always make sure I enunciate every word with meticulous care. If I mispronounce anything, or if I use the wrong word, I correct myself before proceeding. I often begin by trying to recollect the previous night’s topics and conclusions, and I usually end by offering some pointers for the next night’s talk. As I go, I examine everything that comes up with zealous candor. Nothing is dropped or even put off because it seems awkward or too difficult to tackle. I do yawn on occasion, but I do my best not to give in to tiredness before my talk has reached a useful conclusion. And so on, and so forth. In short, I am quite a chap. But one sad thing I realize as I write about my nocturnal soliloquies is that they never make me laugh!