The Dalai Lama, when asked what surprised him most about humanity, he said:
Because he sacrifices his health in order to make money.
Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health.
And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present;
the result being that he does not live in the present or the future;
he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.”
The utensil is gaunt, bleak and infertile. He douses it in sloppy white cream which foams and froths in his gaping orifice, spilling out on desolate lips leaking down the contour of a jagged little chin. The bush of pointy bristles stand to attention like an army of rancid porcupines equipped in full military apparel ready to embark on a gallant crusade. Twisting the sterile tool with a nonchalant sort of vigor as he attempts to purge all forms of bacterial life, the bristles grinding against pointy white pinnacles; metal wool scrubbing against a concrete wall. The noise makes his hair stand on shivering ends, eyes glimmering with disgust, squinting at the polished portrait of a parallel distortion that imitates his gestures mockingly. He chokes, puritanical paste enters his lungs like a ghost, spluttering on creamy butter he spits out what he hasn’t already swallowed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have smoked so much herbal zen last night or perhaps he should have taken his anti- depressants this morning, perhaps vice -versa. To hell with it, what difference did it make; his teeth were brushed now.