I knew every man that lived within him; as entities, held off from; dragged out to the large dumpster outside. “Projections of the mind, “ she would say. “So, they inhabit ones waking life and all of the sleepless nights tell the practitioner whats missing in daylight. “All he had to do,“ she would say. Crossing bridges, houses, oceans, philosophical quandaries, beliefs about the G-dhead. All she would have to do would be to forget. Burry the other and do her own bidding. She would take the role of the brain dead; alcoholic trope, mid life crisis psychoanalyst, stereotypical neurotic, unmotivated artist; the child of a sheltered home. “That’s it!” All she had to do was to heed the words sewn from her own tongue. Criss crossed backwards hymns calling her back home to the forgotten ones.