As night falls

Did George ever exist, or did I imagine him? Was he a projection of something inside of me, a formless lump of clay on which I imprinted a shape of something deep in my psyche? The monster created by my Doctor Frankenstein, to torment and punish me for my sins – real or imagined?

And now, that same lump of clay is languishing in a psychiatric ward, ready to receive the imprint of doctor, nurse, social worker.

My sole is cracked. On my right boot. I shall have to indent for another pair. What a lovely word ‘indent’. They use it a lot in the armed forces; that and the word ‘chitty’.

Sometimes I wonder what life’s all about.