I think God has writer’s block.
Letting tears fall out over his red face into the couch, he opened his shaking jaw and asked, “…What do I do, doctor?”
Jon put down the pen on his clipboard with a light clack and said, “Get good.”
His eyes darted to the scarfed psychiatrist. Stuttering he asked again, “G-get good? What do you m-mean, get good?”
"I mean get good."
Finally the tears ran out. Finally, in the span of two minutes, all his personal conflicts and inner torments melted away, leaving nothing but the explicit clarity he had searched for, longed for all his life. At last, he understood; all he had to do was to get good.
Bounding with the energy of a new man, he sprung up from the couch and stuck out his hand, outstretched to Jon. Jon firmly put his hand on his and shook it with this exuberant patient. “Thank you, doctor, thank you!” he said, right before rushing to put his wallet’s money into Jon’s clipboard, running out the door, out the halls and into the streets: “I am free!” he proclaimed, making it known to the neighborhood around him that here was a man who had learned to get good.
Here was a new man. A new life. A good one.