Like me blending with a brick wall like a carbon footprint erased by the flawed logic of a penitentiary surgeon trapped in a demented revolving door on Easter Sunday.
Like me tinkering with my supposedly robotic arm with the wit of another symbolic mermaid to prove to the underworld that my canister is not full of yesterday’s epilogues.
Like me snapping my hormone stew and funny mug at dawn to separate the onlookers into two castes equal in citric acid concentration but far from being tailored from the same boring cloth.
Like me and my retro white blouse slightly revealing my uppercase as if I’m shouting my new moral values to a lab rat strapped with a cluster bomb so that I can lose myself in a pool of fragrance.
Like me so that I can fly off to the sun get a tangerine tan and be propelled to outer space where my ego made of cork will keep me afloat until I finally understand the difference between a spoon and a fork.