In the unlikely event of actually entering the room, you would find him sitting in rather large leather manager’s chair, typing away at a laptop while wearing very tight, but nonetheless quite attractive, black boxer shorts adorned in white stars, and smoking a cigarette. You would find him typing the very lines you are now reading. And as you stare at the words forming on the screen - horrified at the rate of which your thoughts are molested into long, wordy sentences - the music, a disconsolate constant you seem to just now notice, suddenly changes into a terribly jovial piece, and he winces and stops typing. A few moments later, the words “Suicide Scherzo” appear on the screen and the music continues, as violent as it had been before. And he continues typing, faster and faster, erring and repairing, hammering at the fabric of your reality.
You’ve been taught to run, but you do not. You know better. You cannot escape the inevitability of nonsense. He favors his creation with a brief glance and nod, and lights another cigarette.
“I may talk shit,” he tells you, “but I do it with irrefutable confidence.”
