More Colours (vi)
...but who wants to hear about my identity?
I see two hands raised in the back row.
—Ronald Palmer
see dick rethink language in everything they take in (
money might be everything): every song by Dire Straits, every
opera, even the ones they wrote that master’s thesis about, every film. all
knowledge somehow just stops and gets rewritten. but seriously? they’re
elder, this has to be something like dementia, like
alzheimer’s, but with such mind
numbing speed it’s more like, say, a stroke?
dick’s worst possible scenario is feeling like
a stupid idiot, slipping toward the median, if not lower.
suddenly, there are no apologies for how they were raised.
hegemony! dick’s brain-blown by the ramifications of evolving. and at this hour!?
