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thinking about personalities. Poitevin was one from many and from many one, like so many, or so Poitevin thought and rethought. But let's get back to the unfurling of the chorus's single mouthpiece's day. Poitevin had no job. Many would have casually said that Poitevin had no identity. All Poitevin had was a never-ending monologue with Poitevin's self of thinking and rethinking and thinking again. If Poitevin spilt a glass of milk, if Poitevin forgot to water the fern, that was all it took: Poitevin was off! Thinking and rethinking. Poitevin had a fern and kept it in an extra- ordinary flowerpot. Sometimes as the setting sun's last bright, bloody rays grasped desper- ately at the window sill trying to cling onto the life of another defunct day, the bluish and bruised metallic rim of the extraordinary fern's 
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flowerpot would shine so morosely that it would positively drive Poitevin to lunacy. This de- pressed flowerpot introduced itself to Poitevin by coquettishly manipulating Poitevin's mother into a perverse and insatiable desire to upgrade Poitevin's beloved fern. Poitevin's mother and all her weighty costume jewellery shuddered every time they were faced with Poitevin's anarchic and disgraceful disregard for decorating. From Poi- tevin's mother's vantage point, Poitevin's fern, which had lived the simple life in a reddish- brown plastic pot with some longish roots growing out of the drainage holes in the bottom, was a slob just like Poitevin. Fearing disgrace would fall upon the family from an outsider's opinion of the Poitevin's poorly manicured plant, "Mama" had thrust the dark, metallic flowerpot into Poitevin's life and the fern's. The flowerpot's relationship with the fern was then promptly and  |
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