The janitor pushes his rusty bike to the edge of the Russian roulette until a soft voice resounds epically. It was “his way of frowning upon the overrated scenarios that falsify people’s minds on behalf of the crooked paleontologist” as he said. In fact, it was him that set the trend of wearing lopsided carnations on rainy days, in spite of purple slowly becoming the new fuchsia. He was a renegade.
Sometimes, he would sit on his head whistling old soap operas theme tunes until his reputation suffered from it, but in a good way. On Tuesdays, he would go parachuting with a few ounces of dried tomatoes taped to his forehead to prevent the rise of the far right in the polls, which proved to be somewhat irrelevant. Is he not the lost aunt you thought he was? Perhaps he’s just talentless, allergic to family ties and dreadlocks like an eleven desperately in search of his missing seven.
Numbers don’t matter anyway, just like pretzels or orangutan that look like gargoyles. Don’t let it stop you, jump right in and hug the janitor. He might abduct a few kiwis, ponder for a moment and run to the nearest cocoon for an instant of pristine enlightenment, but do not fret, he is thankful in his own ways. Tomorrow, when the droplets of feather will cover the roof of the sanctuary in a white carpet, everything will make sense.