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coffee. Even more accurately, work is a religion, and so Marx was right all along. The man
grins. The coffee is standing in front of him, zealously requesting to be imbibed. He takes a
sip.
The next step of his routinely hangover is to sit down with his coffee and write. He never plans
in advance what he wants to write that strains the creative process too much, or at least in
his head it does. The thought reappears in his head: Marx was right all along. Not about
everything, but about religion. The Socratic idea that the afterlife is spent conversing with
great dead philosophers pleases him, and so he looks up as though to acknowledge the
veracity of old Marx remark. People are addicted to religion, in some form or other: for some
its work, for some its science, for some its being part of a culture. It is that invisible
framework constituting a persons outlook, the way in which they see the world. When you
know someone well you know their religion, and then you can see where they are coming from
miles away. Some people carry their religion with zealous conviction, others waiver more in
their faith. What unites them all is that there seems no good reason that their way should be
the right way of looking at things. Even if there were one it would have to be asked: why is
that a good reason? And of course at some point youll have to stop giving reasons for your
reasons. He shakes his head, writes the argument down and drinks some more coffee. Then,
as out of nowhere, it dawns upon him. The only true non-believer is the artist. He tosses the
thought around for a while, observing it from every angle until he pins it down precisely: It is
the artists essence to free himself from the shackles of religion, at every moment to transcend
this psychological demand in order to liberate his own soul. He writes down the poetic thought.
Maybe he should be a poet instead.
The phone rings. He hesitatingly reaches out for it. Yes? It is Lydia calling from her office.
Have you started cleaning up yet? Dont forget Grace and Paul are coming over for dinner
tonight. He briefly looks around the messy room. Yes, yes, I am on it. How is work? Work
is great, actually,- His diversion is effective. Lydias voice is beaming with excitement, ready
to embark on an extended monologue about the joys of work. -I am finally making progress
on my case. I just love it when everything starts to make sense, it is so- her voice breaks up.
-Erhm, I have to go now. I will tell you more about it tonight. She hangs up, leaving him
once more with his own thoughts. He continues to write for a while but his headache is starting
to reappear. He widens his eyes unnaturally and puts on his robot voice: Must. Banish. Once.
More. Blip. As the bottom of his coffee is reached he stands up with automatic faith and walks
to the kitchen, determined to satisfy his brains desire for another cup of black gold.