I move on.
U: "Ah, Herr C. Finally you return for an appointment."
C: "Uh huh."
U: "No happy face?"
C: "No."
U: "What's the problem?"
C: "I'd rather be somewhere else."
U: "Nobody's got a gun to your head."
C: "Not a gun, but policies."
U: "What are you getting at?"
C: "Money. I'm getting at money, doctor."
U: "Herr C., what ever happened to you over the last time we saw each other?"
C: "Too much."
U: "Such small replies from a man of such large tolerance."
C: "That doesn't mesh together at all, doctor."
U: "Please, call me Ulysses. Like last time, Chasmere. Do you remember the last time, dear?"
C: "I don't recall, Ulysses."
U: "I told you a story about chills. You listened nicely. I liked it."
C: "Tell me again. Refresh my memory."
U: "You care?"
C: "I pretend to."
U: "Grand."
C: "Please, tell."
U: "Well, there's a man who came into a bar one evening and he was one of those chumps that constantly tries new places until he finds the suitable requirements that oh so fit his desire of ultimate pleasure, in drinks that is. But this here man was a being without clear vision. He was blind. Without eyes, he was. So anyways, he walks in to this little place on the corner and gropes his way to the bar table and asks the bartender, 'Bourbon on the rocks, please.' To which the bar man replies, 'You trust me, sir? I could easily slip poison in your glass, or spit in it, or even give you the wrong order if I was so devilish.' But the blind man merely smirked, chuckled a little, and answered, 'It's not a matter of trust, bartender, but a matter of common courtesy and respect.' The bartender stared into the tinted glasses of the man, faintly seeing the embedded tissue of emptiness behind those frames. So after a few rounds of the juice, some small chit-chat, and a few laughs, the bartender decided to slip some outside waste in the next drink of his customer. After sucking down every last drop, a few bubbled back up, as the blind man coughed and gagged on the essence of his booze. The blind man searched blankly around the room, firmly grasping the table's edge, gaining his breath. 'Why did you do that, bartender?' he questioned. 'It's in my complexion, sir. I give the sting, you take the bite.'"
There once was a man who couldn't quite understand the reasons to
understanding, the reasons to believing, or the reasons to trying. For
weeks at a time, he'd sit around his vicinity and dwell more and more
into shame and lonesomeness that it fully consumed his very thoughts, his
very mind, his very soul, his very willpower to accept his own illness.
He had indeed been a happy, bright person outside of his kingdom, but it
seemed that as each day that he passed underneath the wooden doorway to
his sanctuary, he began to get more and more heavy in the head. The nape
of his very neck began to bend in a ways of wonder, his baggy eyes
started to droop more into sandbags than mere loose sockets. So much
miscommunicated angst was within his face, that even he himself couldn't
figure out the problems behind the solemn expressions of being alone. But
he constantly questioned whether or not the feelings that he was surely
feeling were either loneliness or some kind of subtle depression that
hadn't quite slipped its cheery note through his ears and into his skull
to light the bulb that hung above it. Relationships faded each day, anger
built up on the smallest of things, and minor injuries or losses fueled
his pure hatred for all. Was he becoming a monster or a victim of
dispute? Had he walked through the vomitoria only able to envision
suffering that didn't quite match his feelings that he was feeling for
all things or is this entire phase of disbelief, misunderstanding, and
giving up a small stage to what was coming up next? Sure, people feel
this way that he feels many times. Isn't it natural for humans to become
inhuman at times? Was it a possible defect in his mind that made his
trace of thought race by with nothing but negativity? A grand electron of
unanimous charge. Where have the meanings behind small classes of
happiness deprived to? "Why don't they stay with me all the time, from the
moments they are and from the moments they are lost", he wondered. "Could
it be that the storm that lasted for what seemed like months upon months
last this long? Bad luck must land on someone." Sitting on the comfort
matress of thinking, wondering whether the fork was in his side or not.
Drugs cannot be the afflicting matter, nor could the vile drink to
intoxicate emotional discharge. Wasn't a girl, for he had the girl that
was his friend and yet beyond that. Friends, in general, though, were not
something that he had ever found quite the fonding company of choice.
Rarely had he ever gone out, rarely had he ever substituted time to take
leave from his sanctuary and spend time with other sociable associates,
rarely had he ever even stepped out in the open to find a new task to
keep him operating differently. "I find this taste of solitude a menace,"
he often thought, "and yet I find it to my liking."
