Stare at this inkblot. What do you see?
I see people torn apart by the blaze of heavy guns.
The world is burning and I don’t care.
No.
I see butterflies and happiness.
Good.
Very good.
You are responding well.

Stare at this mess on a page non-descript.
And say whatever comes to your mind.
I don’t like you.
I don’t like your tie or the way you smile or the way you keep insisting on calling me by my birth name.
It’s annoying.
So fucking stop.
I want to beat you into the table with my talent. But these handcuffs are a little restricting.
Don’t you think?
I see flowers.

I like the progress your making. It’s turning out quite well.
Maybe I should visit someone else.
Someone a little less famous.
Or a little less concerned about fame.
It’s what I am.
And what I do.

What do you see when you look at the inkblots?
Or maybe the question is
What does the inkblot see when it looks at you?
When you stare into the abyss.
The abyss stares right back.
But you can’t see through the cracks.

Are you watching closely?
See this animal in this cage that you built.
I wouldn’t look him too closely in the eye.
Are you sure what side of the glass you are on?

So I sit.
Me and the inkblot watch each other.
Waiting for each other to make a move.
I’ll be right here.
Waiting.
For my next appointment.