Uncle is now an idea, on the green carpet in a house beside two coconuts, where we saw a fire rage in a kitchen and some pigtails quivered with fire chants.
Last time, a year ago, he was a thing on way to be a mere idea in my mind. The thing is now an abstract thing, an argument away from a sarcasm.
Uncle is an idea together with a dad and a mom of the far off mango tree. The ideas vanish when I myself turn into an idea, an argument with a neat conclusion.