He is endless, says my father, looking inside his glass. Inside the wine glass is a forest. Inside the forest are many vineyards and monkeys. Inside the monkeys, a lake of melancholy. Inside the lake of melancholy, many women are bathing. Inside the women are many disappointing male lovers. Inside the lovers, a language of hate. Inside that language, an algorithm for addiction. Inside the algorithm resides my father. Inside my father, a cage. Inside that cage, my father, trapped. Inside the father inside the cage, another cage. I did not mean to talk about him through a necklace of onions. But he likes onions. Isn’t it fascinating, he exclaims, the way they seem endless up until they end and nothing remains.
