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Summary
He decides it, one day, on a whim. What would it matter if he’s to take action, to whittle his destiny from what little agency is afforded to him? Yes, him. The word rolls off his tongue with stilted measure, a proper word improperly applied but—what would it matter? Here, beneath the sharp-angled ceiling of their pen—because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A pen. Not a home, not a room—what he and Lucille say, is law.
It starts with him referring to himself in the third person, then he asks Lucille to cut his long hair. It ends in bursts of red, blue, and garish yellow.