The Maroon curtains open to a stage with a very bright light shining to the audience. Behind the stage is a giant window as the flash shocked audience will discover. Facing the window is a Jungian therapist, this is not an obvious observation although the bright patch on the back of his head is a good clue. Behind the man, facing him, is a skinny 23 year old having a quarter life crises or something of the same magnitude of devastation. The audience will soon discover a surprising revelation from him, if otherwise, you have already read the story. Although only the chairs they are sitting on are to be mentioned, the kind audience is advised to fill the room with their own imagination , and notice the 60 Hz hum of the aircon and the brightly coloured curtains next to the door. The window frame is devout of further decoration except the now delicious and apparently less bright sunlight. Luckily, the characters are kind enough not to start the conversation without waiting for this now-seemingly-unimportant-introduction.

Doctor Tillman ( Hereby simply referred to as Tillman or Prozac Dealer, your choice, says, enthusiastically): Hi Lizard-Eyes, how are you?
Skinny Guy (Behind him, facing the back of his head, hereafter being refereed to as Mel): That's a stupid question for a doctor to ask unless its a social call won't you say?

Tillman: Etiquette ,my dear client, etiquettes' everything these days.  Want some gum?
Mel: How about Prozac.
Tillman: Not before a nice juicy Venezuelan soap opera performance material, buddy. You know this.
Mel: For heaven's sake, how 'bout some coughing syrup. The thing's quite a taster.
Tillaman (Agitated): Oh I'm sorry. Did I accidentally hang a sign that read "Restaurant" ? Which is it today?
Mel: I'm happy.
Tillman: I suspect the manic phase of bipolar.
Mel: (A bit hurt, and developing an itch just below the nape) Wont you ask why?
Tillman: That's what I get paid for.
Mel: It's love.
Tillman: You met someone? She filed for a restraining order yet?
Mel: Nope. It's me I found.
Tillman: You could have just asked me the last session, you were right there last Tuesday.
Mel: No, not the skinny engineer, the pessimist philosopher, the sweaty cyclist, the undisciplined writer: Me without title. Plain as me with a goofy smile.
Tillman: How you like my curtains?
Mel: very nice. I love the bicycles on them . Very Dutch.
Tillman: Actually they windmills.
Mel: Oh, and what's down with the incense?
Tillman: Feng shui.
Mel: I thought it was rearranging the furniture and such.
Tillman: Yes, but the only furniture in the room are these plastic chairs. Then I'll have to loose the window seat. Fat chance! ( Here the audience and the reader realize the room is not actually as they imagined nor seen, but also devoid of furniture and fittings, but the writer urges the reader to at least imagine a carpet made of Llama skin with blue trapeziums) About this you, tell me about him. You exchanged emails?
Mel: Well, I'm thinking right, if I'm dead and stuff an my consciousness miraculously slips into heaven without being noticed, how will I be, who will I be? I mean, there isn't no cycling, no engineering problems except for the devil complaining about the oil prices and optimising the heating elements. There wont be any Tuesday night poetry open session. No library to read Dante and Morrison. No late night Jazz with Eddy Zondi. No 2am debates on All Things Considered. Who will I be? Does what I do really define me? And how will all the other faceless balls of light enjoy my essence? By changing colours like I was some kind of new age disco light equipment?
Tillman: Heaven, consciousness, I thought you where Existentialist.
Mel: So what. Do you mean to say the truest part of me is my deed. I'm me in deed. Hey, it's a heluva Satori!
Tillman: What, finding yourself or the origin of Indeed.
Mel: Tell me seriously, after you look in the mirror and close the closet, are you ever sure you are the object and not the image?
Tillman: Absolutely; My stomach reminds me, I'm not in 2-D.
Mel: But that's the point. Every mirror has depth.
Tillman: Hey, I'm playing doctor today.
Mel: I don't think I need a shrink. I need a philosopher.
Tillman: Sorry to disappoint Lizard-Eyes. Off the record, you are crazy.
Mel: I'm a in a quarter life crises. You doing twice that. Never mind the fact you talk to people while facing the the other way. You have the curtains nailed to the door and your receptionist is wearing a Biombo Mask  .How about I tell you right now your existence is in the mind of a 23 year old who has abandonment issues and he chose to write about a crazy middle aged psychoanalyst because he hated Freud and crazy scientist was the cliché of the day.  Would you still call me mad? If your existence was a mere contrived thought?
Tillman: Are you claiming you are God?
Mel: I'm to you, your scripter.
Tillman: Okay, then do something amazing. Bend a silver spoon or something.
Mel: I don't have one. Besides, my cousin's writing Uri Geller. Its plagiarism.
Tillman: Then give a good life. Endless happiness.
Mel: Do you have any idea what THAT does to the ratings? Besides, my publisher will have a heart attach. Anyhow, I'm not here to dictate YOUR life. It's like God after the 7th day. You haven't heard of any recent sightings of Him modifying the Polyverse by chance, have you? I'd be so dissapointed missing out on that. he could pimp my DNA.
Tillman: Ha! So much for godisms. I think I need to prescribe you something stronger.
Mel: You know what. I'm getting Alanis Morriset on you. Thank you, but no thanks. You are useless.
Tillman: Do you want me to be aware, I'm useless?
Mel: What kind of question is that. Did I just have a Freudian slip? (Slowly rises from the plastic chair, waits for Tillman to say something like: wait, this is bad for business, besides, I'm really struggling, but realizing it's not going to happen, he adds: )  Fine, I'll give you back some hair. (He silently closes the door. Exuent.

End of Part 1

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