Because I'm you.

Words that wore out he used most. Without even a feel for the time he used hours of them, in train terminals, in lectures, over dinner, over the phone - no matter what the situation called for, he'd just pour in an hour or two of these words that wore out. Long ones, uneven ones, ones that would easily offend or be misunderstood, or ones he knew would repeat well. Words that moved easy across a page or through a conversation, no matter what the meaning attached.
"Why'd he do that?"
I don't know - whose asking?
"I am."
You are?
"I'm the guy you're writing about."
Oh - so, but why ask then?
"I want to know."
But you already do know - don't you?
"That's just it - I don't. Not until you write it."
OK. Well he, er, that is you, did it because, because, well, because words just don't stick with you.
"Oh."
Yes. They don't stick. You find they, er, slip around a lot; you find they slip around and slide like streaks of an oily mist.
"Yes. I do."
And you - even a writer like you - you can't actually speak them. Yes: you write them down - that is you type them down, all day long, every day, every week, at your smoky old desk, in that crippled chair, but you can't speak a word of what you write. The reams and books and all the countless publications. All of them, you cannot speak.
"I know."
You, do?
"Yes. Because I'm you."
You are?
"I am you: I write, and I write, I never stop, all I do is write about you, and what I write, becomes you; it speaks you. I have no need to speak therefore you see; have no need to be a speaker or one who speaks. Because you are what I am."
Yes. Yes. Right. It is me. Him in the terminal, at the lectern, always on the phone. I remember now, it is me. But - all of this - I was writing about you.
"No: Not quite: It is I writing you."