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The Department of Delving has studied during the problem for 15 minutes, slotted for free-thinking and exploration, and come to the conclusion that the vast source of frustration is internal not external. This may have been discovered by the Department of Comfort had they conducted a more thorough investigation rather than a fly-over study in their airplane. On that note, the Department of Delving also suggests that inhibitors be disallowed on the job. In any case, the problem lies here: the endless reprisal of a woe-is-me struggle gains more hold on the subject each time he allows himself to point a finger. One member deemed it “self-flagellation with auditory reward.”

“You’re ok. It’s that, not you.”

The cycle can be interrupted and corrected by the following solution that we have unanimously prescribed: identify shit-sustainers and systematically eliminate. For example: rather than opting out of solving social problems and proceeding to solve the problems of a young nation amidst a global crisis with a revolutionary set of social action is unhealthy and unproductive- the shit is sustained. Solution: see yourself as a young nation amidst a global crisis and proceed to solve your own problems with a revolutionary set of social action.

Have you ever gotten baked and had a conversation with yourself in the mirror? I recommend it.

I roll over and rub the eyes. I wake to warm feet and cold motivation like an unpushed pendulum. A refusal to rouse has me idle and on my side in the bed. I can just lay here for five fleeting minutes and it will be—

A touch that is warm but has the frost of surprise taps my spine, and sends alarms up my back to my brain, inspiring a soft jolt and a clenched-teeth inhale. You keep your finger there and after a pause for acclimation, you politely place another. In a smooth yet syncopated manner, you begin dancing them, one on one off, and patiently increase the speed. Your other three fingers join in and move up and down my spine at will.  You’re playing my nerve endings like a piano and writing some break-of-dawn sonata in E-minor. I can feel you thinking on the pauses and with each touch there is another microscopic explosion of some homeless passion that has found a home in this morning, its only suitable environment. You make chords of my vertebrae and I imagine the sound. You decrease your tempo. You prolong each note and slide your fingertips off on the release of each note. The light starts peeking through the blinds and my alarm goes off—the classical station. I wonder if you planned all this or if it was by chance. You stop, hastily roll off the bed, and close the bathroom door behind you. I open one eye and let it roll back as if it could reach where you were just laying. I roll over and prop up on one arm to take my eye where it wants to go. I stare at your faint indent in the sheets. I wanted to see if you left some of your magic there.