The CounsellLors

Every counsellor needs to be counselled.

A man becomes aware of his own mind, cauliflowers glass quadrants - sees the roots - like a wet wart.

He talks to the counsellor who listens (he is paid to listen). The counsellor notes that this man has reached an impasse. Unsure how to proceed the counsellor speaks to his counsellor. He echoes the impasse.

The counsellor's counsellor misfires a typo into the monitor : & continues: he doesn't want to think what could become.

All the combined impasses could make a fence across the globe - thousands of men's problems mysterious as the workings of global finance. Nobody knows where they go. Each impasse. The echoes.

The man doesn't care about that. He just talks & by increments he starts to feel a little better, so that one day he leaves.

The counsellor is left with the impasse - it has to go somewhere. He picks up a phone.

His counsellor turns on the screen.

And makes a call.

A call.

by Chris McCabe

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