Jack sank back in the velvet-clothed chair sitting by the fireplace and started smoking his pipe sporadically mumbling aloud. “Which is better to be blissfully happy or somber, to entertain a solemn incantation bewitching me the gift of pen? I say the later let me find no light as to not divorce my avenue of escape, my quiet and quaint sojourn to a place where I make my own fate, wish me not to the world awake. Yet smile on me, Father. I do not exist, I faithfully insist, as it was once annunciated from the fiery lips of a devoted acolyte, make me so. Yet let me breathe. I have grown too far from living under the lamp shade of an luminous chart of pluses and minuses—my shameful checklist of regression. And I live much like a man wrestles a bear for his life; a wild bear, untamed vicious, industrious never resting, so is the idea that perplexes me. I am to experience mental, and metaphysical, psychological strain to subdue the frightful thought or to befriend it is no less a challenge. And silence is all I seek, yet raincloud do not stray too far, for although you are my enemy you are just as much my friend. That charming cohesiveness of my worried heart and wondering head, so the bittersweet ache of solitude is to me, and it gives me and a dark cloud plumes just beneath these priggish and haughty skin and bones, they think they are invincible to the disease of man, they have a mind of their own, for my sake it is so, yet beneath it all it bellows pushing and blowing some somber weather front through my chest, my arms and my hands pouring out scripts, dialogue, storylines, poems, etc. I pray it is from God. Let me not think of it as from the devil. For I fear all matters of evil try to find ways into me. Accepting my fate as a vile beast! No! I cannot acquaint such contemptible reveries, illusions, fabricated certainties to myself, to God to all that is good! Me thinks I have become a madman wearing the straitlaced uniform of normality. I beg you leave me despicable swine, all things evil and crawling let me be. For surely it is weak, and the weak according require such a parasite.”

Ayn sat, listening on the window sill, looking out on to the street collecting an ethereal glow as the rain reflected the streetlamp’s light. She replied “Jack, I fear you have grown too fond of the night, and the alcohol.”

Jack scoffed and turned toward the window. He looked at Ayn despondently saying, “Ayn you remind me of my mother, always shouting orders, always telling me things I never want to hear, then again she was always right, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean you are.”

“well, honestly Jack, I don’t care about you. Not as much as Francis, Peron, your mother or Mr. Weathersborn. It just am sick of you sulking to all hours of the night drinking whiskey and writing on your father’s walls. If he were alive—“

Well hes not is he? He’s dead… quite very dead by now. a year its been a year since he died, I don’t think he would have minded. Its mine now anyway” Jack interrupted.

“I'm simply saying, preserve what matters most to your heart, don’t let fantastical visions and transitory felicity take hold of you, it will surely make you a gambling man; eventually betting things far more valuable than your creative edge. And quite frankly if I have to listen to another one of your discursive rampages I will break every one of those damned bottles” ayn recanted.