Sure. I read that. I read this, too. I read that Alaskan Inuits have 53 words for snow, it didn’t phase me one bit. I didn’t flip inside out, wearing my emotions on my skin like some electronic, battery-powered skin design describing the future to itself.
Instead, I was mesmerized. I was cornered, cowering in the light, entranced by shimmering beauty, a likeness to something so deep, it almost hurt to remember, barely could it rise from the depths, a honeymoon song to a world so far away.
A place. A designation. An address or coordinates on a twice-dimensional X,Y plane.
I’m kidding. The earth is a globe, look it up!
After you’ve done that, sound the alarm. Ring the fucken bell, Diplothos, and let’s get out of here.
Who the fuck is Dipolothos? A guy I just made up. He’s created from fire, he drinks water like punches in the face, and he tells us what to do. He says, “Get the fuck out!”
I slapped my knee, I said. “I will,” I tell him, or you do. We leave.