He waves it like a sword of light. George Lucas, if sane, would be pleased; at least he ought to be. In any case, the apes in their corners, their shadows, their mislabeled janitor’s cupboards, they scatter, their mouths dripping that insufferable acid foam of knowledge upchucked and chewed and undigested. As always, it comes in colors; the blood of iron, of sunlight, of chlorophyll and crystal. Of sky and water. Of love and space and time. Of missed flights and predestination. Of bookends.
Rainbows of angst.
He could and ought to write a kiddy’s book, when he awakes. But his sweet, blind seer of a brainchild would only be shat on by the apes, and suffer from high temperatures.
The sad thing is, he well and truly never ever even means any harm when he puts his foot in.
Once the wily things have retreated, he descends a set of stairs and goes on, down into the belly of the Museum.
Concrete pillars and yellow lines and emptiness. The dark is thick here, yet not even ignorance dwells. What is down here, forsooth? What is down here?
“Hrm,” he says aloud, scratching his delicate chin. “It’s the Supposed Former Car Park of the Apes, not DeLovely. Obviously I’m in the wrong film. And I still need to see that, by the way.”
“Oh now that’s disturbing. At least it would be if I had never not heard an echo before. Hello? Is anyone there?”