This
is it.
Left alone—you cannot help
but transform.
Soon,
you'll be a
secret
superhero again.
You'll
invert.
And everything
else in the world
will still
be full-color, but you—you'll finally
feel black
and white
again. Your chest
cavity will cave-
in a little,
and cool,
and its
throbbing will slow,
even
as your brain
swells,
and begins twitching
and switching
between gears—pretty rapidly
clicking and pinging and shuffling
between
its equally prized
and reviled collection
of rumpled paper-
thin thoughts,
running fact-
checks,
taking measurements
for cross-
comparison, examining
photographs
and drawing meticulous
little diagrams on
each of them
featuring all the best-
and worse-
case scenarios;
like paper-mache (no,
Papier-mâché), it'll then start
cutting and gluing
together huge
compilation lists,
and then—
carefully destroying
the now trivial
impetus for having creating them;
After all that—it'll usually
try
it's hand
at solving all the classic koans (no
problem, given
enough time, it
reasons)—before
giving up
on that,
and settling
for writing
brand new ones instead,
like—
Quick!—what is it
you
would
think about?
if—
no
body
was pressuring you to answer that question?
