Yeah, a toaster. His temperature is sky high. His brain, afire. Of course, that flame inside him isn’t from real heat, only what could be represented by that burning coal nestled in his thoughts.
And his pregnant body is ready to pop up some cinnamon toast any day now.
But the monks are here; they’ll take care of it.
They are taking care of everything, now. And they are still filing in from the monastery on Ansypporus, via the Seven Doors of the White Pyramid. Good that it became active again, since that little blip that made him so dizzy a few moments ago, despite his being in the litter and the Flesh being the one standing in the museum hall. With regard to the Flesh, he just hasn’t been quite the same since they separated that day he touched the Flesh in its vat in that secret facility; himself, himself, himself, himself, himself, himself, himself, himself, himself, himself, and I. And I again.
And then there are the Three of him.
Yet, at least now, even the baby is sleeping finally, inside him. Safe. Warm. Free of conflict, gift boxed like a Christmas puppy in an edible, break-away, biodegradable packaging. But soon, even that blessed dreaming will be disrupted, too.
It is the way of things. And very Green.
Let the others deal with it; he’s waited long enough for a little sleep.