I, CRISPY, ONCE MADE A LIST

of everyone who debated about the causes of schizophrenia. There are doctors, psychiatrists, professors, heath professionals, nurses, orderlies, sky caps, ushers, saxophonists, injun chiefs, racketeers, gigolos, ichythiologists, firemen, the ghost moths of Shetland with their yellowish-buff forewings, men with big hats, animal hunters along the lonesome highway, pundits who are attracted to the light, puritans who are attracted to the light, honeydew melons, sassafras, flowers that look like orchids, you, harmonica players who play a mournful tune and a host of fish that live so deep in the ocean that their bodies are luminous.

And yet no one agrees on the causes of schizophrenia.

Except for the luminous fish of the deep, who, as a group, tend to agree on the academic issues, and whose secrets remain within them, embedded underneath the coldest of the ocean’s most deceptively deep waters.

Will we ever know the secret cause of schizophrenia?

No, for the secrets of the luminous deep water fish will die with them, which is OK, really. After all, just because they agree doesn’t mean they are right. Just because they are lit up and living in a mysterious dark wet cold place doesn’t mean they know everything. No way. They might know the secrets of the deep, but not all of life is deep. Take schizophrenia, for example. I like to go fishing at the beach.

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