Toochi cups his hands, blows into the flesh cavern, desirous to fill the crevices in-between fingers, to clarify plagiarizing words from gestures. Touch of porcelain is vanilla fanfare, touch of purple and John the Baptist’s head sings of the coming rapture, touch of a parking sign and the neighborhood children question the motive to eat vegetables.
Toochi is certain a slow moving red Prius is following him, its color morphs from red to pink as the sun interchanges angels of inflection on the metal exterior. Cataracts abound, he pauses on the street corner, removes his cellphone, points the camera toward the sky and films the overcast. Pink Prius is down the block, driver watches Toochi’s actions in the rear-view. The red Prius pausing has Toochi concerned, and the driver is bound to question the filming of a blank sky. Both of them ponder on the other, until another other captures their interest.