Life is too short for boring stories

It was a night that had nothing left for me. The conversation abused me.
“I will not sign, because I have neither ignored nor discredited the men. You can go from me,” I said decisively, but he did not let loose.
“When you look at this record, you will find that all the places in your stories, as you call it, are cited, in which men do not occur, or in a way that one can conclude that you discredit them.” he woke up again with his wallet.
“The places where they do not occur. Then you have probably just about all my stories not just taken out, but read. I find beautiful. So eager readers. But yes, men do not come because they do not matter, here on my jetty. I speak an invitation, and who likes can follow it. I do not exclude anyone and do not name anyone by name, but they do not come to the men. There are always women who come to visit me on my walkway, and so they only come in my stories,” I replied truthfully.
“That’s just it. The men dare not come here, because you do not invite them. With men you have to talk clearly, otherwise they do not understand it,” he tried to explain.
“All men? You do not understand? All the men are like that?” I asked interested.
“Ha, you say it again, all men. Now I have the proof. This is something like a school-confinement,” he exclaimed triumphantly.
“No, you said it. I thought the sun was going up in the morning and evening, and men are so because you said it,” I replied accordingly.
“But men are different,” he said.
“Yeah, well, and so it’s differently implied, but you only hear that if your thinking is far enough,” I said simply.
“This is all very imprecise. But anyway, could not you just sign that I’d get out of here?” he began to ask.
“I’ll paint you a flower. The offer is,” I said dryly.
“Well, then there will be no choice but to go to court, and believe me, we will go through it, and if it must be, go to the Supreme Court. We have time and money. But you will not, and you will lose everything, the castle, the lake, the jetty, just everything, and what is going on then?” he asked, smirking.
“You’re looking at something, I’m just a fiction, nothing more than a fiction, and it cannot be destroyed as little as you can destroy a thought,” I said, smiling.
“Just a fiction? Can it be that I dream that this is nothing more than a terrible nightmare?” he asked uncertainly.
“Yes, it will be, and you only need to wake up,” I assured him, and as he closed his eyes and opened again, he lay in a bed.
“Honey, it was just a dream!” he cried, but he did not get an answer, because he was alone in bed, and it was not his bed. It smelt of shabby motel and mothballs, and the hooker he’d hired was gone, with his money and his car keys. Perhaps the fiction of reality would have been preferable?


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