I am functionally illiterate. I am functioning today, just like I function yesterday, don't worry about me. I'm strong, got strength. I'm strong, getting more strength. I get my strength from carrying this cart around, this big wide banana cart with big bunches of green bananas, not yet ripe, not forced open and inorganic. Yellow is ethyline gas seeping through the scarred-soft insides of bananas, mine is green, not full of gas.

Too bad about your jobs. You got jobs in the city, where you sit inside and speak gibberish and make mistakes all the time. I don't have such mistakes; I have bananas, they are good or they are not. I just gotta keep my eyes on em and I see my job unfold. Like a plantain, unfolded flat.

You gotta eat the outsides! I sell you bananas by the pound, yes, on this rinky-dink scale I measure out your bananas and you tell me you throw away the heavy parts. You ever weigh banana meat? So undense. So light. Lightness is it's trait in milk in cereal and sure, valuable. But heaviness in soups and breads, heaviness in temperament, in potassium. Heaviness, oh, weigh me down by bananas and I might sleep all day.

Break a banana with me. Better than bread, slide it open and we'll see. Lay them flat on the berm. Line them, swab them. We sit on boats and stare, shake up and down and stare at water, breaking bananas. We grin, on our boat, and stare.

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