and you contemplate the color yellow. the puddle. the banana. wonder if yellow is a thing at all, or if it's just a concept. a generally accepted way of perception. maybe the dog was a puddle all along, but you didn't know the right words to navigate -- to name, to know, to recognize it. or maybe things always ever change. the banana won't be yellow for long. seventeen hours ago, you thought it was all about something else. and now it's just you, the remains of the dog, and the realization that this phallic symbol you've been holding -- that you've been clinging to like some extraordinary link to communication -- can so easily too be altered. peel back the skin. one piece. by one. and by slow dissolving mouthfuls, you've created it into a flower. yeah, you think, still with the sickening taste of the creamy fruit lingering in the mouth, yeah . . .


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