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“Why do you say every man is a planet?” the demon asks him, licking his scalpel.
He lies on the ground, wounded, bruised, tattered, crippled, fragmented, nauseated, destroyed. He passes a faint smile at the demon. “Leave that, tell me, where does one get strength?” he asks.
“It’s too late for you. Ha ha ha,” the demon laughs. And then he stops. “But why do you ask?” he is greedily looking at his flesh, whatever is left of it.
“To listen to Rachmaninov,” he replies.
“Your mind is your boon and bane, you fool,” the demon is shaking with rage. “You want to clean your bag with soap and water. Then you look at the mirror work on your pillow and want a tear drop to fall on it. Then you wonder about the phrase ‘the fat lady has not sung.’ And then you want to wriggle out wax from your left ear. The bed sheet is not properly tucked in, and it worries you. Then you look at the idols of God. You pretend to talk to them as if they were your drinking buddies. Stop it, stop it. It is consuming you.”
“Will you let me drink some tea?” he asks feebly, feeling his lips with his tongue.
“You know when you were in your mother’s womb, she used to have a lot of watermelons,” the monster says. “Would you like some?”
“Here drink this hemlock, you fool,” he says. “Stay like this.”
