Psychoanalysis

The land of psychoanalysis teemed. There was nothing they wouldn’t ask, no question too obscure to dig up and shake out.

It was regressive, sure, but technology prevailed. Interrogation lamps hung above the roads. Everything,

cornered. We dipped the patients in fetal water. They came out gleaming.

Tongues wagged. Baggies were filled.

This was the drill; the sit-speak-fetch of it. We asked them questions, questions of questions. The origin of time gulped.