Unable to relieve himself of the assorted ilnesses,
neuroses and general discontent left for him by his patients
he has learned to keep them all in a locked room in the corner of
his head.  Well away from the places he daily inhabits, they remain
behind a door at the end of a long and empty hallway (figuratively
speaking, of course.)
	But into his office walked this woman, gracefully.  This woman
was a (figurative) burglar; a psychic burglar.  She broke and entered
his head unnoticed and searched through every room.  She unlocked
every door.  The memories, stories, feelings, dreams shuffled about
and mingled.  I said she was a thief, but she stole nothing;
 her curiosity was placated.  She even left him with a wholly
undivided mind.  The cohesion was indivisible from the disease.
His sick hand moved to touch his sick head.  He felt in touch with
every part of himself and he felt the freely gnawing disease
expanding in pained, nauseous waves.
	She was the well-meaning defeater of human locks and cages.
She skipped with quiet grace, unremarkable face and cheerful smile
on to the next challenge.