A droubble by chant_z
Facing the fact that the phone never rang I was fenced in; I had a ghostly feeling about something being downright wrong. I could do like Freud; blame it all on the mother although that would be too easy.
Looking at the mirror only to find the mirror looking back at me. Who am I to know what it is for a moth to be a mother? The divorcing was the hardest part and I feel like a character in a Francois Truffault movie; I’m getting old.
Then all of a sudden the phone rang. How on earth would I know, I was fenced in by the blooming mirror just being there on the wall like another fly; I doubt that Husserl would have thought of that; he was all into apple trees in bloom but then again he was lucky; he died in 1938. Freud and Husserl went to the very same lectures but Husserl never did put the blame on mother.
I picked up the phone only to realize there was nobody at the other end. Had I been too late? Had the mirror tantalized my very being in this promiscuously flowered world? Is it all about Eve?