There are two people: John Efi and John Efi. If there were one person, then why does John stand over his own shoulder, watching the other thresh pemmican like barley? Confounded as a hart in gaze by estuary edge, the upper Efi retreats.

"How is the cathedral of wisdom today?" lashes Efi, the sitter. They redichotomize.

"It's your disparaging remarks that fertilize my enmity."

"You're rough-legged."

"You're an ass."

"You're black-throated."

Reconvening by the buckboard, the Efis refute any hegemony. Though discourse is far from eleemosynary, its whirring fades and falls by the penumbra of the buckboard. John cognits a final comment to be a feint in the context of his own ahimsa, and the donkey scuffles at the squawking of a grouse.

"John," says Efi, looking into the eyes of his now physically separated clone, "you're a conch."