Ernst has lived among men for decades, aging in lines and footsteps, but like a little boy still in his heart, in his quivering soul because of all the chemical banquets and emotional anorexia consumed, lovingly, when he should have been creating a manhood and wearing a tie.
Ernst loved his sisters, both soft-faced adventure girl and tomboy champion of the world, imaginary games and sweet tenderness with barbed taunting, and lived Ernst for all time in tiny childhood confusion, his mother disappearing into the fuzzy background like the sound of household dust on a record player needle while his father, all presence and residual oppression stroked him and puppeteered his little hands, persistently, shamefully, secretly.
Ernst failed at sport, dropped out of school as reward-revenge, giving hooray for small victories, like a throat-lump crying with the deep hurt inside his little messup mind, and his plaintiff cry: Why cannot you just love me simple-big-hug-love, as I love you, oh, my role man, my papa, my god-like? And all his screwed up sex anguish lies rooted in that marital bed, his lean hunger, his opiate-induced meandering. Ernst wants to cry big wallowing floods and springs and leaks bursting out to wash his sins away, sins of the father like shackles on the ankles of the crippled son, clanking, but there is no liquid love for Ernst and his tears come out only as salt. When Ernst cries, sidewalks melt.