1991; nondream digital picture-poem life-summation by Chris Wayan.
I inherited severe allergies and chemical sensitivities. Many people, especially in business, still react with amazing hostility to requests not to pollute common spaces with perfumes smoke solvents etc. If it doesn't make them sick, it isn't toxic. I must be lying--playing some control-game. And the only way I can prove my point is by dying. And even then, I'm just faking, you know.
Like the oceans.
Are the vertical anagrams coincidences? MS, multiple sclerosis? BFD for big fucking deal? Okay, IPY for International Physics Year is a bit obscure isn't it? The year those frivolous Pure Scientists got funding for arctic expeditions and saved a decent baseline so we sadder-but-wisers can judge greenhousing and the ozone hole... Okay, it's all coincidence.
But I still swoon around your manly aftershave, darling. Your many, many manly aftershaves. And what a close shave it is! In a century, maybe, we'll know if our century's barber was Sweeney Todd.
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