Are
we that person? Someone else defined? That caricature of name and job and
belief and vote and relations? That set of identifiers serving soon as
typecast? That person they box in and write off? Or are we what typecast only
hints at? Not submissive to role, open to change, someone just trying to sort
it all out? Are we not, this November morning in this irresistible place, this free-moving
being overflowing with memories, tested with desires? Do we not, some of us,
scribble something down like this, with our implacable biro, just to get ‘typecasted’
out of our system?
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