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THE CHANGELING
Russell Edson
A man had a son who was an anvil. And then sometimes he was an
automobile tire.
I do wish you would sit still, said the father.
Sometimes his son was a rock.
I realize that you have quite lost boundary, where no excess seems
excessive, nor to where poverty roots hunger to need. But should you allow
time to embrace you to its bosom of dust, that velvet sleep, then were you
served even beyond your need; and desire in sate was properly spilling from
its borders, said the father.
Then his son became the corner of a room.
Don't don't, cried the father.
And then his son became a floorboard.
Don't don't, the moon falls there and curdles your wits into the grain
of the wood, cried the father.
What shall I do? screamed his son.
Sit until time embraces you into the bosom of its velvet quiet, cried
the father.
Like this? Cried his son as his son became dust.
Ah, that is more pleasant, and speaks well of him, who having required
much in his neglect of proper choice, turns now, on good advice, to a more
advantageous social stance, said the father.
But then his son became his father.
Behold, the son is become as one of us, said the father.
His son said, behold, the son is become as one of us.
Will you stop repeating me, screamed the father.
Will you stop repeating me, screamed his son.
Oh well, I suppose imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, sighed
the father.
Oh well, I suppose imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, sighed
his son.
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