The village idiot roams around with a skewed view of days. He does not even see days – he only sees darkness, and light. He knows no time.
He sees fragments, details, shiny things. He sees good or bad. Like, dislike. Pleasant, painful. He sees right, or wrong. He does not see history. He does not see story. The village idiot has no agenda.
The village idiot is an architect of fragments. He is, too, a deconstructionist. He resides in his metropolis. Kitsch architecture. Flying cups. That’s where he lives.
He does not like the slums in his metropolis. He gets chased around, and gets hurt there. But there are many places to escape to. The metropolis is sprawling, like an expanding universe.
He does not want to leave.
The village idiot forgets his body, the same way he has forgotten his pants, his shoes, his own history, his name. But he doesn’t forget his white shirt.
