It’s possible to suffer glaucoma before suffering tunnel vision, to be insect-like but orotund, to be a WWI helmet with stick legs. Perhaps your wife calls the symptom of your condition the ‘ladybug blindspot.’
Dressed like a farmer and drinking like a frog – lips and chin always hovering perpendicular to the glass’s rim. She said ‘drink the frog’ when she meant ‘drink LIKE a frog.’ It was a shorter portrayal, containing the same meaning and immediately qualifying as the best thing you can offer someone you know very well: a cryptic utterance that rings true only to him or her.
In the closet stands a ready-to-wear cone of tear gas he always puts on before going out, but even before not going out, sometimes worn even before putting on his conventional farmer’s clothes.
It’s possible that only he thinks his trout farm can be seen from space, and that its shape symbolizes the human capacity for heavy metal; with that guitar one can leverage post-coital tristesse any time. Verily, a small and brittle enough labyrinth – no matter how complex – can be bulldozed by one’s tongue.
You don’t have to see around corners the way a panda’s continental eyerings can. In space you can hear the clam’s inner monologue. Sometimes you cannot see the great shimmering guitar. Eye-full of gas, throbbing with the solemn emotion of a sprinkler. Eye opener deployed by large, rectangular distance.