He stands, his naked torso dripping salty sweat down upon the mournful corpse of the desk. In his right hand he holds on of the metal supports. He swiftly smashes through the glass of the rear window of the nearby Sierra. “Lover, that’s your car.” She yells? “I don’t care. fuck off.”, he replies. A crowd has gathered. “Get away. SCRAM.” he says. The children who have dared come closer are covered by the spittle that he expels. Some disperse. “I’ll call the Police.” “I SAID SCRAM! This is my time.” The police arrive. He yells at them, like all of the others. “Sir is this your desk?” they ask, wondering about his mental well being. “Is this your car?” “Officer. This is my property. I can smash it.” “Sir, you’re causing a disturbance.” “I don’t fucking well care. It’s my desk. It’s my car.” He steps back from the car and forcibly throws the support at the windscreen. It bounces harmlessly off and he grumbles, picking it back up, raising it above his head and repeatedly smashing it down until the glass smashes. His attention passes to the front headlights. “Sir, we’re going to have to take you the station” He begins to yell, a long scream. It punctuates the fearful street, travelling to the junction. He is held in custody, waiting for the magistrate to see him about bail. He screams. His lawyer comes to see him, he still screams, his throat dulled from weeks of it. The magistrate sees him, recommends help. The scream continues. He is released, sent back to the dull first floor flat he came from. He doesn’t leave it, he pisses in Robinson’s jars: the golly looking happily on as his ammonial extracts hit the clear glass surface. fuck knows where the jars came from, he doesn’t even eat jam. The screaming tails off. She’s gone by now, but her memory lives on, her face down, smashed in the frame against the floor. He’s there alone, nodding with a pent up rage that hits highest highs occasionally. There’s no glass left. No crockery. Just him, dulling hitting surfaces that are non-compliant.