Arising from a false sense of entitlement, the convict, blessed with a laughable fear of flip phones and reversible overcoats, fantasises about a rose that could erase borders. He dreams of a world rid of septicemia, horse racing and abundant facial hair. Who took the pillowcase from the crater where he once stood? Where are all the lethal frappuccinos made from the echo of Geminis? Why is there no man-made equivalent to a meteor? One thing is sure: he who invented the smell of gas wants his voice heard out of wedlock, hence conversing solely in oversimplified onomatopoeia. Faithful to his strict vegan principles, he’d never cheat at hopscotch. So, who wants to be his lovable mistaken identity?