"C'mon Julian. Stop pulling my leg. This whole story is
starting to smack of one of your gags. I'll bet you rented that robe
from the costume shop across the street from my office," I
suggested, breaking into my best fear grin.
Julian was quick to respond, as if my disbelief was something
he had expected. "In court, how do you prove your case?"
"I offer persuasive evidence."
"Right. Look at the evidence that I have offered you. Look at
my smooth, lineless face. Look at my physique. Can't you sense
the abundance of energy I have? Look at my peacefulness. Surely
you can see that I have changed?"
He had a point. This was a man who, only a few years ago, had
looked decades older.
"You didn't go to a plastic surgeon did you?"
"No," he smiled. "They only focus on the outer person. I
needed to be healed from within. My unbalanced, chaotic lifestyle
left me in great distress. It was much more than a heart attack
that I suffered. It was a rupture of my inner core."
"But your story, it's so . . . mysterious and unusual."
Julian remained calm and patient in the face of my persistence.
Spotting the pot of tea I had left on the table next to him, he
started to pour into my waiting cup. He poured until the cup was
full—but then he kept on pouring! Tea started to trickle down the
sides of the cup and into the saucer, then onto my wife's prized
Persian rug. At first I watched silently. Then I couldn't take it any
more.
"Julian, what are you doing? My cup is overflowing. No matter
how hard you try, no more will go in!" I yelled impatiently.
He looked at me for a long moment. "Please don't take this the
wrong way. I really respect you, John. I always have. However,