Who would ever tell anyone anything?

That was a lesson I grew up with and very likely one I'll die with, all the therapy merely a circular, somewhat decadent detour, back to what I really know of life. Unwashed and too sick to do a proper tour of my collection, I cancelled Helen until Sunday. I called the agent and said, again, I was too ill to speak. That was pleasurable, if demented. Clearly, I need antibiotics. The future quickly shrivelled, along, I noticed, with my dick, to nothing, or next to nothing, and all I look forward to now is finding the ivory cane, my dressing gown in purple, pottering around the house, showing Helen the finer moments in Victorian erotica, allowing her to know her body is of interest to me with, and yet also without soul, and that for all my fervour, she cannot own the scheme of my life. And not even that of her own.

For comfort, I called George.