Today I purchased a quart bottle of flavored seltzer, and brought it home. Here is one of life’s little treats I enjoy every now and then that isn’t expensive but tastes as though it is, and is available at any supermarket. I refrigerated the seltzer for a time, then decided I would drink some of it, because I was thirsty; my medication certainly more thirsty than I was without medication, when I could endure entire days without even a sip of water; in fact, in those days I didn’t drink water at all–I drank milk and OJ in the morning, maybe a glass of diet soda at night, but now I drink water literally by the gallon. And here I was with my luxury: flavored Seltzer. Cold. Fizzy. To be opened with care, I remembered. And it’s a good thing I remembered, because seltzer, of all beverages, packs a wallop if opened carelessly. One can even sustain injury from such mishaps. A bottle of selzer is potential unrealized. There’s a lot locked up in it that hasn’t come out. So I opened it. Carefully. One crack at a time. One iota. A little more. A little more. A little more–as the bubbles gradually rose and exited to the surface of the water like a caged, screaming fetus finally allowed out of the womb–until finally, I was able to unscrew the cap and remove it–and drink, right out of the bottle. Thorazine is like that; it acts as a buffer. It slows down the release so there won’t be an explosion of fizz. It ensures that there won’t be any dangerous messes. It cradles the bubbles gently and gradually, so I can drink, drink, drink. Without Thorazine, I’d have seltzer on the floor, as disorganized as my mind, and an empty bottle, without life, without hope.