God knows, I could do with some supervision.

I fired Buckley. Who wouldn't? Aside from his moronic adherence to Freud, I couldn't bare his bald, stubbly head. Very likely he would have demurred, pointing out it's genital likeness. However, he failed to hide his surprise when I told him we were finished, flinching, somewhat pleasurably, then muttering something about my grieving process.

Oh Dad, when will I ever get round to you?

Is it time to talk?

How our moments escalate.

But Buckley was wrong. My father's death is reorientating my entire existence, but it has nothing to do with this irritable and destructive desire to be alone, utterly alone, aside from periodic acts of intercourse, of course. And so it is, I fired Buckley because I hoped never to see him again, ever. I could ruin my entire career in the space of a few weeks, but I am in the grip of thanatos and cannot help but wonder, was I ever as good a fuck as now? I doubt it. But if there were a moment, a moment in time where the flame of my end were lit, it was last summer. It was Rome, in August, when I groped, in seeming magnificence, the bare breast of Canova's Pauline. It ruined me.

So, there we are.

A glass of O, and sleep.