In a far corner of a house

In a far corner of a house, wedged in between a bathroom and a closet, sits a small room without windows. In this small room sits a small, lumpish man. He is seated in the room’s one and only seat, and he is talking to himself. The subject of his talk is unfixed, shifting arbitrarily from one thing to another. He nods frequently, exclaims often, and is constantly interrupting himself with prolonged sighs. He is a confused man, and upset.

People, he says at one point, cannot seem to stand a bit of sense. This is interrupted by a sharp screech, followed by another declarative statement: I cannot fathom that man with the teeth over there. And, perhaps, he couldn’t fathom the man with the teeth, and perhaps people cannot stand a bit of sense, but none of this is of any importance, that is, none of the things he said or exclaimed or sighed are ever of any importance. The only thing of any importance is that there is a room for this man – tucked away, naturally, but nonetheless there; a room in which this confused man, this upset man, can find some sanctuary from everyone else – all those people who seem so certain about things, those people who do not seem to be upset at all. That is, it is important for a confused, mildly upset man to have a corner somewhere, even if that corner does not have windows, and even if it only has a single chair.