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 ^{(it's beta!)}

Shall I, Shall I not, O chicken scratch gods:

I open the portals into my soul (by this eyes are meant, in the passive voice)

What are eyes which in their very plurality defy the uniqueness of my being?

Dastardly and satanic scum, nothing more.

I once left

And Carl came close, inching along the ground on bleeding kness and red-dry elbows and he whispered ever so hoarsely to me. What Karl told me that day was a secret, and I will not tell a soul until now: Carl was blind.

"I move for a motion to stop the reading of books. Lets just look at them from now on," said Julie, and there were murmurs of agreement from the choir.

Suddenly, with a minimum.

Don't judge him. What have you created? Nothing more than him. And I curled up, safe in my paralysis.

Eyes staring out of sockets, eyes staring out of floors, eyes staring out of walls, eyes staring out of doors. All these eyes and more were trained on the man. Woe, I beseech you, do not visit this man any longer! But the eyes would only stare, and who knew their physiology? They never blinked, and this man of mine, he went mad in the long run.

Caterpillars crawled on leaves, if only to eat them. But soon they would be butterflies and pretty.

His anger was ruling his life! Porous checkers and slow thoughts could not satisfy him no longer. "They're only games!" he cried and jumped.

On his bed, of course. Silly! The whole book toys with the reader, tricking him (o feminists I implore you to allow convenience to prevail) into believing one thing until 3 or 4 pages later it dawns on him that assumptions he once took for valid never were. New evaluations must be made. The reader looks backwards, head over shoulder, in a metaphoric manner. Dorsatum's subtlety astounds him. Even assumptions made during the reading of the introduction are shaken, if not entirely toppled, as the book unfolds. And then it's all over.