- Vol. 09
- Chapter 12
And you see the truth from all angles, all at once in that impossible but acceptable way things are shown to us in dreams. Pink punches through your subconscious, skewering the ordinary thoughts of postmen and kangaroos. Your neighbour’s postage stamp garden makes you want to scream with its too tight corners and chameleon hydrangea; the pink is not pink enough, the blue is the weird blue that tinges your grandpa’s lips. And when he speaks through those blue veined lips, his voice is miniature, trapped and wrapped, and you know that it is the little boy that he was, that he is, that he still sees in his dreams and he is posting those tinny words out of his own old mouth.