I’ve been authoring this story for six

I’ve been authoring this story for six years, and I don’t know where to begin. I wish a chemist would create a pill for writer’s block; something like Text-Lax, or Word Softener.

Then my damn psychic neighbor intruded. "Um, sorry. But you were thinking out loud. Cicero was big on personal libraries and cabbages. Have you tried kim-chee for writer's block?"

"That's borderline cannibalistic. That doesn't bode well for your prognosis, Iago." I knew why he was calling me Iago. He knew I knew. "Can I have my mind to myself for once," I as

-ed the intruder in my mind. I waited too long for an answer before realized that was my answer. But what was my answer really. Had he left my mind? Was I alone in there? I heard a

door slam in one of my ears. He was out of my mind, but by that time, so was I. "Hello, Nuthatch Sanitarium?" I barked (literally) into the phone, "I would like to report a burglar

who can't burgle." I put the phone down as I realized I didn't have a phone in my padded room. That was ok, 911 would probably call back. "How," I asked myself, "without a phone?""

Imagine how frightening it must be to be, or not to be, without family or friends to call you a moron & make you feel as big as an amoeba’s excrement. Welcome to my hallucination.

My thoughts hearken back to dear-departed Mom, whose idea of loving motherhood consisted of donning a makeshift Nazi uniform and approaching me with a snapped-off car antenna. She

would edge toward me with the insectoid gait of an Olympic fencer, yelling "en garde!, recreating a kind of Napoleonic D-Day. Ah, those were the days.