The Quixotic Life Out of Context

It is that time of day, when I relapse into one of the same imaginary dialogues, where I explain everything, with slight variation in listeners. Where I am once again vindicated, where I'm carefully observed, taken in. A sign of immaturity by the standards of serious behaviorists, one of whom is my wife, who watches me without my knowledge, and coldly lays down the law before me, when she catches the familiar mumbling and fumbling for a word I need to vanquish doubt in the imaginary eye of my imaginary listener, before it rears its head again. I am of sound mind, I exercise, and I have proof, drowning in the necessities of daily life.