You blink, and the world is different than it was a second ago. The man sitting on the log before you suddenly more familiar to you than the bespectacled man at your side, quietly thumbing through the pages of his notebook, pen at the ready.


It takes you a few seconds to realise why, but the revelation hits you like the bullet you're almost certain THIS man fired hit Lely's biological off-switch.


You know him because he's you.


The you awaiting you if you refuse to let go. If you continue to chase the apricot shadow. If you continue to avoid responsibility for your ultimately self-inflicted woes through the medium of copious amounts of Commodore Red and speed.


This man is nobody. All that defines him is external now: his hatred for capitalism, for the killer (the OTHER killer, that is), the union, the world. His existence a mere caricature of living, given meaning by how the inner void attempts to deny its own existence by drowning itself in the world beyond those tired black eyes, never once looking inward and acknowledging the fault lines formed within.


No. Wait. You're not entirely right, here. There IS a difference between the two of you. A small one, but maybe the most important one there is.

You still have a choice.

==

The insects will be looking on. Rooting for you.


Un jour je serai de retour près de toi
-Bedo was here