Chapter(?) Three

He moved the bottle of wine from the tabletop to the floor beside him. A spill could be catastrophic.

He ranted about money in his own head. How is it that it cost him just a hundred dollars less than he worked for to get to work to work for the money that he's paying for having worked? Is this a sick joke?

Distinct possibility.

Someone once said, "If you have money problems, you have no problems." He was either half-retarded or had no money problems.

The wine began to have an effect. So he took another swig. He regrettably had no glass available.

Another swig.

He discovered that the wine glass is an overrated accessory.

There are so many questions that I'd love an answer to. The limitations of my own mind are of unlimited interest to me; just to understand whether I've the remotest chance of receiving a reasonable reply to my incessant inquiries would satisfy me.

Maybe.

He stood in the attic, blowing smoke upwards towards the grate above the garage, constantly reminding himself that he'd been much more careless last time he was caught. The last thing he needed was his mother's animosity as he prepared to leave tomorrow. He'd seen so little of his family despite his best efforts.

There is no name for the feeling. It's not exactly anxiety. It's not paranoia. It's not curiosity, or restlessness. It's not fear. He struggled to put a word to it; as he struggled, I found an answer. But it was not one he'd accept. It was not an answer which held anything of substance.

More a passing thought than anything substantial, I realized the following: all of human emotion is based on vagueness. It is the uncertainty that breeds all the words we have for emotions. But it is never one alone that we feel.

We are always on the borders of them all. It is like some sick ven-diagram, wherein all these things overlap and we are stuck dancing like scared animals around and around the borders, slaves to our own rationality.

I'd be better off as a dog.

Cigarette. Swig of wine. Sleep.