there's nothing wrong with uniqueness, says the doctor. it would be a boring world if everyone were to conform to orthodoxy. we all have that within us; everyone has it-- to an extent, it is normal. It is human; and I nod, knowing that familiar feeling oh so in touch with your mortality and human unreliability tempest in a teacup flood of neurotransmitters and flowing, flowing thought; oh wait-- what were we talking about again?
He smiles. It's soft, decidedly not medical, though the hallways outside have that faint smell of alcohol they like to rub all over their sterilised surfaces.
we can't figure it out, we can't figure out, you present a puzzling case (it doesn't fit the DSM-IV) but well, what do you mean I'm sure people have-- get that all the time wouldn't you say so, oh don't they imagine too? oh say I'm not alone
softly the muses stop speaking, and they slowly drift away.
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