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me prone to the anger disease.

Chapter 32:
IN BETWEEN OBSESSION AND ADDICTION

Piled up in the corner of the room are these black and white covered notebooks that don't quite
make it to the ceiling. Written inside of them are tales of fiction that have a longing to become true.
While this is each composition notebook's final resting place, there is however always one that
takes the place of the other half of the bed I sleep in. The one that still has pages to be filled, and is
not yet ready to join the others. These are the words of a therapist I was suggested to see many
years ago. "Var intet rädd." Those are the last words of a dead king.

The same day the therapist told me that I wanted my fantasy to become reality, I asked him if he
knew that there was a word for the killing of ants. He says no, and I tell him that the word is
formicide. I ask him if the reason for this word's existence is simply for classification purposes,
say, John Doe kills ants in his basement so we need to classify him under the word "formcide," or
do human beings really consider this act of killing ants to be anything but trivial. That ants deserve
to be recognized as living organisms.

He tells me that he doesn't know, and then the silence that is suppose to be therapeutic comes.
"What the hell am I doing here?" That's what I think to myself.

I close the door behind me, the door to the room that those notebooks sleep in, and on my way out
I stub my left toe on the couch. Because of the way my mind works, I purposely stub my right toe
as well. Max out the balance. Strange dreams, strange life, and somewhere in between, strange
memories.

Sometimes the fantasy tries so hard to break through into the reality that it becomes painful. One
time I had a dream where my partner and I were somewhere overseas and had a slave owner in
front of us on his knees begging for his life.

As I'm standing there with my gun pointed at his head, I realize that I can't pull the trigger. It must
be my first time. I also notice that neither my partner nor I have masks or suits on, I'm thinking this
is one of the first events in the story about the thieves from New York. Anyway, the thing is I'm so
angry and full of hatred for this man that I start to taste blood in my mouth, and then I wake up and
find that I have been chewing on the inside of my mouth, and when I open my mouth, some of the
blood falls down and stains my bed sheets. This is not the first or last time it happens.

After I finish stubbing both of my toes, I go to the bathroom and take a shower. I get tired of
standing so I sit down facing the dial and I feel the hot water hit my body. I'm so relaxed that I
eventually fall asleep and begin to dream. In the dream I'm standing alongside a row of parked
cars, and in front of me in the distance is the Mount Rushmore National Memorial.

George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln all before me
representing the first one hundred and thirty years of the history of the United States. It's a shame
that the project was cut short in 1941 due to a lack of funding. Maybe if it wasn't, the completed
sculpture would be represented in this dream.