There is a fabulous portrait of the Duchess
of disproportionate awarded slaves. Her
nipples are known at times to detract from the
product's subtle explanation (the artistic side of
these things and such,) as well as any feeble
amount of metaphor that the piece may contain.
~Adam Gaucher

"The crackpots in this world are sane enough
to know they're crazy. Why aren't you?" he asks.
"I've a feeling there is something more out
there," I respond, disregarding the subject matter.
He looks out the window.
"Stop that window stuff," I plead, "I mean,
if you can imagine fifteen living things
standing in some very wide field; wide enough
to where you can't even see the fence; at
least one of them will eventually harness the
ability to prove itself as God to the
other fourteen given the odds, yes?"
"What are the living things?" he asks.
I smile, "At least you didn't ask the 'Oh, but
what is life?' thing."
"Oh, was I given the chance?" he asks.
"This isn't a script," I respond.

"Are you trying to tell me that you are crazy?"
he asks.
"I'm not gonna go out of my way to prove
anything," I respond, "I could fall into it, but
I'm afraid it would be a waste of better things."
"Like what?" he asks.
"Like silence," I say.
"Silence?" he looks aghast.
I provide no response.
"What do you mean silence?" he asks just
before he's been able to figure it out.
Again, I provide no response.

"The place is really hopping tonight," he says.
"...Yeah, what is this," I ask, "Thursday?"
"Yeah," he says, "I think so."
"I've always enjoyed a Thursday every now and
again," I say, "Sometimes the world's best people
are born on Thursday."
"Or Saturday," he adds wryly.
"No time for flattery me friend," I reply.
"Oh," he catches himself, "I didn't realize."

"You were saying earlier that everything is
dependent on conclusion," I say, "refresh me."
"Well, eventually everything will be solved by
something," he says, "Therefore, nothing can
exist without being able to eventually be solved."
"But there are people who'll throw around
five thousand dollars as if they'd actually earned
it," I add.
"Well haven't they?" he asks.
"Exactly," I say, "Some conclusions stop at a
t-bone steak and the evening news."
"What the hell are you talking about?" he asks.
"I'm just masking the fact that I'll never know
what I'm, 'talking' about."
"Ok then, what are you thinking?" he preys.
"I'm thinking that the mind is emptier than space
itself," I continue, "a sort of inverted perception of
what's actually available within its reach."
"Of course," he says, "it can never be filled."
"Sometimes it hurts," I conclude in soliloquy, "to
give it a wall to lean against."
 
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