Inspired by Peter Crates and written without the letter E. Reads a bit like something translated.
“That girl is a fucking idiot,” I say. Out of my mouth words pour without my thinking about what could soon pass. Thomas says it’s unfair. Alan says I’m myopic. I don’t know. Might just paint that saying on my car and allow thinking to go on without my input. In minds along this road who look upon my car and its words, what occurs? I would wish to cut into a brain for insight post-car-sighting. A man looks in my car, watching nothing but what this man wants. It’s all around now, his want in solid form. Stifling my body with willful cloying. That’s protocol today. First said by us in that first instant of cognition. This plan is not following with facility. Thomas can’t gasp aloud without phasing Alan’s volition. Alan can’t will without making us sick about it. It isn’t at all a point of clarity as it stands. No flow, no calm. Discuss, discuss, that’s final Alan might say that. In fact, Alan has said that on many occasions. It’s not, though.
I think aloud: “I know that girl. That girl is good at sports and school. Why did I say that?” My mind throbs. “Why do I say such things? Is it my soul longing for flight from my lungs? My spirit, my vapor not, wanting my warmth?”
“Your spirit is cold. That’s a fact, not my opinion,” Alan says. “But it wouldn’t work anyway. Spirits stick to your ribs. Don’t flow through your nostrils.”
Thomas, thoughtfully sitting on his stool, looks at us and says, “Do you know it, I concur with Alan. Your soul has no contact with this girl. What do you call this girl?”
“Cassandra,” I say.
“Cassandra can call out things abnormal in you,” Thomas says. “Cassandra might do just that. But still, a good girl and not a fucking idiot, as you said. Logic, you know? Cassandra’s using it right now as you and I and Alan sit arguing with our own words and your wrong thinking.”
“A quiz,” Alan says, “to catch a fool, if Cassandra is in fact a fool. Common topics, but not too common. Normal, I might add. But surprising.”
“Surprising to a fool?” I ask.
“Yah, that’s it.”
“What’s not surprising to a fool?”
“That girl Cassandra thinks I’m dumb. Why quiz that girl’s stupidity and not my own?”
“For you also, okay. That, too.”
My apology, truly, to you all.