reading room
Foil, Barcode, Tongue
Arthur twists the shaker.
Not king—
not man
just a barcode etched
into the foil of a snack pack
beside the word potassium.
It glints in static. Clean hands. Clean mouth. The book opens on the wrong page and says, “This is the journey.” (it lies in perfect grammar.)
The ape cradles a spoon like a relic. He cannot read, but draws constellations in the dirt with stolen scissors from a child who dreamed in cut-out stars.
PEGI warns: mild fear. suggestive confusion. The tongue is unsaved— a slug, a map, a weapon once named.
Arthur again— this time: ape. this time: error. this time: bookless, tongueless, blessedly unclean.
Uncap me, says the shaker. I am not your flavour. I am not your cure. I am not what you hoped I’d taste like.
Arthur aga— Arthur (again)
PEGI 13: contains existential themes
I am already spilled. And still— you wipe. (You knew that when you picked up the shaker.)
— Lilith