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pottery up with its elegant little painted guppies, which looked like they were releasing little bubbles from their bright mouths whenever beads of perspiration gathered on the flower- pot's side from a recent watering. Absolutely everything charming about the flowerpot soon succumbed to its unexplainably wretched and gloomy outlook. Soon the peaceful little gup- pies on its sides seemed to be gasping for freedom from the dark, geometric patterns that surrounded them, especially at dusk as the setting sun's last bright, bloody rays grasped desperately at the window sill trying to cling onto the life of another defunct day… Poitevin sank even deeper into safe, secure repetition. Aside from hopelessly trapped painted guppies on a life-ruining flowerpot, Poitevin had friends, and Poitevin could not stand them, and, 
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to be honest, they were not too fond of Poitevin these days. With friends, things had to be thought and rethought out even more. Poitevin preferred to interact with ferns and TV commer- cials. Poitevin thought and rethought that the best thing to do about this was nothing. At least nothing that required thought or rethought. Poitevin was not a Poitevin of action; Poitevin was a Poitevin of thought and rethought. Breath- ing, blinking, ageing, yawning: all of these activ- ities seemed all right. Poitevin did not have to rethink about them. Quite frankly, Poitevin had come to see his friends as combustible catalysts, waiting to set off the thinking and rethinking… just like that flower pot! And yet Poitevin felt loneliness. Poitevin needed a new companion. Relations with the fern were tense, and, anyway, there was nothing to be done about the flowerpot.  |
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