The call of the couch and its dreamy stupor are pitiless. The couch knows, but does not care, that to surrender to its embrace for more than a brief time exacts a cost that even heaven’s highest angels can hardly bear. To allow the dreamy stupor’s active ingredient – the impossible promise of all-curing ease – to seduce, eventually knives one with the realization that the ever-increasing dosages required, as one grows mentally and then physically fat, delivers less and less dreamy and more and more stupor.
The lie of the couch is that, contrary to all evidence, one more moment in its embrace will restore the vigor it has stolen, the happiness it is has eroded, the will it has sapped. The power of the couch is that it always sells this lie with unimaginable ease. It is death by little pillows.