Der Katzenjammer Danach
The morning after Schuldige Vergnügen, which follows on a couple of years after Was Sie benötigen. Schuldig POV:
The morning is too damn bright, I'm too damn sober and my head hurts in more ways than one. Flying is going to be about as much fun as root canal treatment.
Crawford's little pet is sitting perched on the edge of his seat, looking as blank and inoffensive as can be. Now there's another sterling Esset casestudy in totally fucked-up. There has to be a bit more to him than what appears on the surface, or Crawford wouldn't have put anywhere near as much effort into him as he has. I just haven't had the time - or inclination - to work out what it is yet.
Pressing through his outer thoughts reveals relief at leaving Switzerland is only a thin covering for the mass of different emotions at returning to his homeland. They overlay each other like lacquer, leaving his feelings a dense, opaque shininess. I nudge his thoughts towards the more pleasant regions, not through any genuine kindness, but because he's so damn wound up he's setting my teeth on edge.
The fruitcake is standing looking out the departure lounge windows. Just thinking about touching his mind ratchets my headache up a notch. He seems to be ignoring the rest of the world for a spot on the tarmac. Then that one golden eye flicks over to meet mine. The window to his soul may be open, but there's nothing but reflections of an empty mirror-maze showing. Sometimes he makes me want to run screaming. Other times I think he's just the neatest toy in the world.
He flicks his gaze back to what he was watching and says,
"If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself but to your own estimate of it. And this you have the power to revoke at any moment."
What the fuck?
Argh. More cryptic quote bullshit.
Sometime I'd like to hunt down the shrink who thought giving Farfarello access to his classics library was a good idea, and give him a mindfuck all of his own.
I need a drink. Or a cigarette. Or a goddam handgun.
The morning is too damn bright, I'm too damn sober and my head hurts in more ways than one. Flying is going to be about as much fun as root canal treatment.
Crawford's little pet is sitting perched on the edge of his seat, looking as blank and inoffensive as can be. Now there's another sterling Esset casestudy in totally fucked-up. There has to be a bit more to him than what appears on the surface, or Crawford wouldn't have put anywhere near as much effort into him as he has. I just haven't had the time - or inclination - to work out what it is yet.
Pressing through his outer thoughts reveals relief at leaving Switzerland is only a thin covering for the mass of different emotions at returning to his homeland. They overlay each other like lacquer, leaving his feelings a dense, opaque shininess. I nudge his thoughts towards the more pleasant regions, not through any genuine kindness, but because he's so damn wound up he's setting my teeth on edge.
The fruitcake is standing looking out the departure lounge windows. Just thinking about touching his mind ratchets my headache up a notch. He seems to be ignoring the rest of the world for a spot on the tarmac. Then that one golden eye flicks over to meet mine. The window to his soul may be open, but there's nothing but reflections of an empty mirror-maze showing. Sometimes he makes me want to run screaming. Other times I think he's just the neatest toy in the world.
He flicks his gaze back to what he was watching and says,
"If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself but to your own estimate of it. And this you have the power to revoke at any moment."
What the fuck?
Argh. More cryptic quote bullshit.
Sometime I'd like to hunt down the shrink who thought giving Farfarello access to his classics library was a good idea, and give him a mindfuck all of his own.
I need a drink. Or a cigarette. Or a goddam handgun.