it’s crossed my mind a few times. But I can’t let myself go with it, I’m too stamped through like Ida Arnold. Doggedly me for better or worse. I had a friend who scoffed at the idea of seasonal reimaginings of self, he confessed he did it by the minute, by the second. For him a thousand layers of new paint and colour went on, but his old faults and habits would scrape and flake to surface show. Any heavy knock or upset would reveal the cast metal. He wrote poems that flashed the first colours too.
