A small woman in her mid-20's sits in a doctor's office staring, seemingly at nothing, right in front of her, as if peering deep into herself. Her eyes, drooping at the small corners, glistening slightly as they search from left to right and then from right to left. A deep sigh lodged in the cavernes of her being finally escapes.

The door opens and in shuffles an older man, gray speckled hair, deep wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes from squinting at translucent sheets held up to lights, his glasses resting on his nose several inches from his eyes. "Hi there," he says, making small sucking sounds and slowly chewing. "What seems to be the problem here? Feeling OK?"

"Oh, doctor, I need help," says the young woman with anguish. "I'm in a funk and can't shake all this sadness that's built up inside of me. It's like I'm turning into one giant pool of black water asking myself, 'who am I?' and then, 'who am I to complain?' and then 'who am I to feel so abused by society'? It's like, each question raises another. And then that question begets another question of fear and anger.

And life! Oh, life! I pick a sunflower that's hanging on the side of a road by one little thread and take her in, give her a loving home with some water and rocks to decorate. But there she is, drooping in my bathroom, in a living dead state. Oh doctor, can you give me something? I need help."

The doctor stands listening, smoothing down his beard. "Hmph," he grunts as his other hand fondles a small box in his lab coat pocket.

The woman's eyes follow his fingers dancing in his pocket.

A red hill-looking jelly is lifted up from his pocket and he flings it into his mouth, chews, sucks, slurps. Then he takes his gold pen to a starch white pad, pen rolling against paper, rips off sheet and responds while handing her the paper: "Here."

It reads: Krinklecreme. Apply liberally to scalp. 2x daily.