Cercamon, 52

Three little monkeylike creatures inhabit the barren landscape of my mind. Archibald, a rather plump little marmoset type, is an angry and gruff little bastard who is quite pissed most of the time. He says stop writing you fool and grow some nuts for once in your life. Cyril is a tiny little grey figure a bit like a koala but more simian. He is very sad and has long since slinked off to some damp corner to lick his wounds. Robert (not “Rawbert” but Rowbear, like the French you know) is a delightful little Tarsier with wide dishpan eyes and a bipolar disposition. He fancies poetry and vivid dreams. Under some rock or dried bush perhaps he found some sort of seeds which once eaten have made him dance and sing at all hours of the night, coloring the gray atmosphere of my minds cavern with wild displays of fantasy. His antics increase with reverse proportion to the evermore distant presence of my friend K who drifts away even farther as I write my tales. No doubt he will collapse soon, wrung dry by his shamanistic festival, and three little monkeys will lie in a small pile and sleep for many years to come.