Waiting for client R.

I imagine her pale hand on the door knob. She is forty seconds late.

 Let me tell you my theme.Yes, let's start with the theme. Let's have all the pipework, the struts, let's have the architecture on the outside. Well, it's all display, is it not? If we are anything we are within the world. We cannot pretend we don't have surfaces. So, fuck it, take it all then, take everything.  So, my theme. As I have said over and over I believe in nothing but the beauty of horseshit. Lies, falsehood, have always seemed to me the entire engine, the oil, of existence. They are what makes stuff happen. I mean the lies we tell ourselves, the lies we tell others, but mainly the lie to ourselves. The secret grandeur of our delusions is what makes stuff happen. It's what gives us the cock stand. Of course, truth exists, and we need it now and again. Sometimes you have holler from the balls, slap the wife, check the weather. Sometimes you require even the mathematics of breakfast. And yet, it's the delusion that made you rise, hungry,  from the bed. It's what makes people, even animals and plants, strive. It is the striving, the birthing, of an unknown bud. Striving to birth under a terrible sun. But like fucking, all this is secret. We never see any of it. Like death, it never happened. We wipe it off the face of the earth. All we are left is a skirt, and the memory of sniffing. How else should a healthy man spend his time? So, having always honoured the horseshit, always enjoyed the blarney of lying and being lied to, I became a therapist. I sat in rooms hiding behind my eyes, creating nothing. I had exceptional success with women. I died every day. And if I can trace all of this to the twin influence of an insincere mother and a brutal father then, no matter. I have trodden those paths for the both of us. But I am not here to tell more lies. It occurs to me, sat here waiting for client R., that without a few truths we could never know our inventions. And just possibly, it's time to touch base. And I will. But for now, fuck it. Let us dance a little, dance together. Let us be warm under the winter sun.

Her pale hand.