Delivering bread to orphans –

I got rich, studied misanthropy through history.
Read some Freud.
In our own way, we joined hands, Sigmund, Me, humankind hating.
In with a psychiatrist, a room with no leather couch; it wasn’t there, with tears and missing foam, and no bruising my skin with its lumpy arms.
In there and sitting late, getting into it all; self-helping towards a grave of delights.
“All misanthropes, all people die,” he said, and he preferred R.D. Laing, a photo, them, together, matching turtle-necks, looked at me.
Head games over, then, a pointless spiral staircase back into the street.
I burned my library; I’m now delivering bread to orphans.

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