Borges and Derrick and I and Spinoza

This one was really fun. I could go on for a long time again and probably will as an exercise but here's a little sample.

I let him wake up to mulch.

I’m the one who tells him each grass blade licks his face and tells him stories. Though, that’s me telling the stories about the stories. I’m endocrine. I get turned on by light, not chloroplast. Derrick would like to think it’s the other way around; that he’s plant based.

Still though, he’d be partially right to think so. Trouble with distance I suppose; sun to plant to soil to rock to psychic geology. Derrick pushes from his psychic molding. These levers grow longer. These pulleys become stretched.

I’m formed of his geology. Sedimentary. Bits of me slip into bits of him, wear off my palms onto the pumice handled levers. I suppose they brush into his Broca’s area before I have him type. I have no incentive for insight. A lack of endocrine I suppose. No bother though.

He rarely notices me, though he just did.

Right there. Could you tell? No I suppose not.

He’s reading this back to me in our head –more mine than his- while looking at a brain map.

I pull a lever.

I work Derrick through a system of levers and pulleys.

He recalls steam punk.

Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being. I persist in his. We persist in being.

Derrick seems to persist in memories of movies like Brazil.

Though, to his credit, he has read Ethics. For which I thank him. I do this by secreting shaves of algae into his cerebral cortex.