Oh, if only.

Did I kill the hypnotist? In my dream, yes. And woke from this with an exhilarating sense of purpose, presence, and an exact sense of my own capacities. Is this what murder feels like? For this alone, it's a crime. And so it was, on this wave of possession I took a hearty shit to a Chopin waltz and buttered my toast in a frenzy. I soon tired of this murderous persona and decided, instead, to further my plans to fleece my very famous client. However, before leaving the house I received a round robin from Gareth. As expected, he's taken charge of the investigation to inform everyone the police will 'speak' to us all in due course. I took the inverted commas to mean that he has, already, concluded I'm the killer. Oh Gareth, this is all moving too fast for me. And my revenge, my dear, will be deadly.

I stopped in the hallway, preferring not to leave for work in a mood of rising paranoia. Instead, I spent some moments with a book of Rubens. It's often posited that paranoia is a defence mechanism related to an intolerable shame but as my eyes rested on the onanistic Venus in Ruben's masterpiece, I was reminded of my preferred explanation as residing in the breast feeding experience, of which I myself was a frustrated victim. I lingered awhile on Venus before, finally, closing the book and opening the door. I left for work with nothing but warmth for the world.