Seasons change, stars drift across the heavens, and in long quiet moments the human mind returns once again to the eternal question: what even is a crocodile?

A scaled cat that holds you close in slumber?

A fevered memory of colourful wings?

An acute angle out for blood?

The worst pig?

A horrible little man with a moustache?

A banana?

Or is it possible that, as some philosophers have suggested, the true crocodile lives inside our imaginations, making it impossible to judge any answer right or wrong?

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