If they ask where I've gone, tell them I took him out back to scrub his brain. In the faded blue kiddie pool. A quick scrub, one with the hose and the bucket and the sponge and the special soap. The soap bottle that reads: FOR SOFT PINK BRAINS, SMOOTH BUBBLEGUM PINK BRAINS, BABY BRAINS.
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Memories of a past life, when he used to ask questions. Now he does as he is told and he learned to unlearn what he taught himself. He still remembers what he was told to forget but he can't put in to words. Can you blame him? The flood of false symbols make thinking impossible. Not that anyone would listen if he could find the words. Their brains are too dirty. Filthy. But if he could at least complete the sentences in his mind for himself. That's why he needs a good wash every now and then.
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MMMMMM! BABY BRAINS. Squeaky clean. Good as new. Now he can hear himself think. His own thoughts. Originals. One of a kinders. Dangerous man. BABY BRAINS.