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42 Prosopagnosia

Scratching my elbow, bus driver bippity brakes skin breaks I do need to trim my nails. Sun almost up, contrails like flaming whipped cream.

Heartbeats later, bus off-ramping me destintaneously, the sun rises. I look out the rear window, orange cymbal monkey sigil badang badang.

The sun a green screen backdrop, remnant from an old Mitchum film. Change it to Saturn, fake a landing, make a monster movie set in 2009.

Kindred: trapped in his own narrative for four, maybe five, daybursts now, sentence after expository sentence, words moving forward fast.

Clicks on a typewriter are replaced by speed bumps on the median, Kindred trying to break free, he can see himself in the contrails above.

Mirrored Self-MisIdentification. right hemisphere of my brain northern hemisphere on Earth and, by extension, Saturn. Methane seepsmells.

That's me, Kindred, looking at me, myself, and eye. In daylight, the bus driver a two-dimensional wafer, a Pez dispenser ad in SciFiNow#2.

Oh, here's a word. Prosopagnosia, a condition when someone no longer recognizes oneself and believes someone is following them: Biography!

Kindred turned it over to his narrative, he'd think metatext as the narrative him visualized reader-wise, both casual, wise...and wide-eyed.

I was only thirty minutes from Karin's sweet spyness & spryness in bed a spy nest nestled in Space Command Midwest, such a comic book name.

Gave the driver with the pez head a fez filled with quarter-filled liters of lead filters told him watch out for methane, he I'd the paisley.

The purple. The shirt. I shrugged, we switched, I now was James Greyhound with a running dog as my middle name, maybe a brilliant disguise?

Bus skids a 180, driver now in Elvis heaven, good thing I remembered to take Mantell's notepad from the pocket before we made the sly switch

Dropped off between stops, Elis fan Jimmy down with that, I'm at a marker: Space Command 4 mi. Linkedin: 2 mi. Stumblepon: the hear & now.

Kindred knew his narrative self still needed food, fuel to flip the pages with the panels of the day. Watched as the I door ringdinged food.

I'm down there, Kindred said to all of us, maybe its best if we just realize this happens at the same like fate on a breakfast mask/plate.

Its all there, like subway flares or roadkill flair, think red balloon when did the season first change, seriously, when, did you notice?

all so subtle bubble gum balloon inhale exhale condense reality expand the narrative, chew & discard, rinse & repeat. Question authority, 2.

Kindred had the dream, Saturn was as red as Mars as Jupiter's hurricane hole as Tricky Dick's piehole as methane man's exhale inhale insane.

He hoped the audience followed the brainstream in bits of sunshine on the electronic page but up here it is twilight call me a green screen.

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