| My gel pen won’t write well. It’s too thick. The ink sticks. It’s not continous. I much prefer Bic Blue.
“Bic Blue? Why not Bic Black?” Smith asks. “No, Bic Black won’t work. I tried it. Gotta do Bic Blue. Nothing like Bic Blue.” ++ Outside past twilight and the mascot bird above us–that’s what they call pets here in Mexico, mascots–the bird utters a subdued muttered “tchk tchk tchk tchk tchk tchk.” Smith says he’s reporting to Bird Base. “Oh yeah?” “Yes. Sometimes with my increasing understanding of their Reality, they let me lift up the curtain, take a peek at their hand.” ++ We walk through the park on our street. Everyone warns us to stay away from the park after dark. It’s dusk now. The benches are strewn with hot young blood wrapped around hot young blood. Smith says, “We don’t have to be wary in the park. There are lovers there now. Later there will be robbers. Usually when there’re lovers, there’re no robbers. But at some point they gotta mingle, lovers rubbing up against robbers.” “I wonder if the robbers are lovers?” “They don’t have to be mutually exclusive, do they.” “Reminds me of an Escher print, where fish turn to birds.” “Those are bird fish. Those are common.” |