Chris Cascio is unsane. Chris Cascio will get carpal tunnel. Chris Cascio’s skin is a bluish gray from basking before his computer screen. Chris Cascio is a tall emaciated Smurf Krishna. Chris Cascio blows through more X-acto knives in a week than you will in your lifetime. Chris Cascio will cut you paper dolls but you’ll want the leavings, the negative space, the doll-shaped wholes more than you thought passible.
Picture, then, a young, clean, able-bodied, black man posing with a cardboard sign on a street corner. You have seen this before. You have a word for it, “panhandler,” and the moment your brain applies that word to the person before you, you cease seeing because you are now blinded by your preconceived notions.