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03:56pm 23/05/2011
 
 
Mister Nihil
That when, alone, the shadows creep in, he becomes fearful and turns on a light surprises no other person but himself. On top of things, at his own sad requirement, he realizes that his fears are human fears, his complaints human complaints, and his shoes human shoes, which becomes a new human fearfully complainant shoe. Flustered and abashed, he turns the light back down and is again surprised when the shadows, the product of his own overactive brain device and also the product of a million years of brain device programming and also the same as the reaction of any brain device in his situation, creep in and become Things. The Things are capitalized because they are knowable only to every human who observes them, because they become faces and prancing militia and small rodents gnawing his bones, as they do for every person who looks into the darkness and sees that the void, rather than looking back, looks like things.
He notes, in a panicked moment of clarity, that the reason for an ink blot test is not to see how the person reacts, per se, but to see where the brain device is, as far as its programming, not to see the state of the person, but to see where in the loop the brain device currently resides.
The shadows crawl and squink and he looks between them and the zombie sunlight singing off the moon and he curls into precisely the same ball as every other human would, becoming entirely alone and absolutely a part of the grander race. His brain device, aware that it is part of the greater whole but unaware that it is alone, finds other faces to gauge its reaction. The blanket becomes a howling horror. The pillow twists into a grinning object not entirely in possession of a face, but also not entirely melted into a hellish puddle. The swirls in the carpet from the passage of countless feet become a man, arms raised in praise or condemnation, and the twitching of his head as his brain device churns and glimmers becomes movement among the creatures.
Chantacler coughs and kicks the dirt, and looks at his watch. The owl king, somewhat embarrassed, recalls an appointment Not Here. Reynard scratches idly at his stomach and yawns. The night continues and the sun remains conspicuous in his absence.
 
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