The modality of our moment, roused, rising, risen, nigh on full erect, is that of the Thruster.
As it poured that small thought into a word mold, my self asked, “What’s the modality contrary to the Thruster?” Answer: the Chameleon.
The very-brief-and-getting-briefer history of our species on this planet shakes out to Thruster versus Chameleon.
Thruster is a gland spurt, Chameleon a let’s-take-a-look enzyme.
Thruster’s only color is Thruster’s own color; Chameleon’s is who the hell knows.
Chameleon is sort of a bunch of things where Thruster is much of his singular muchness.
Thruster’d sooner grab a vulva as look at it. Chameleon’s a jester as likely to ape one.
Chameleon relates? Thruster dictates? Simplistic, but sort of rhymes.
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