The Depth of My Sorrows. The Many Sources of My Sorrows.
A good old-fashioned psychotherapist could make it his mission to uncover them, using me as his instrument. What possible other instrument could he have?
But to me it would feel as if he had grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, plunged my face into a 50-gallon drum filled to the brim with brackish, icy-cold water. What good would this do me?
(Gasping for air, gasping for breath.)
With all the will in the world
Diving for Dear Life
When I could be Diving for Pearls.