Then: this style, that style–all akimbo, burst scorpion arms wavering to undo the rushing waters of a rainbow.
“You thought about it some more. Have you left this place?”
A blink. A thousand fortunes reversed.
“Rest. Can you contemplate the beating of an eyelash?”
“I am no eyes.”
“I am no eyes for magicians.”
“Is it useful, at least, to decipher where lies the brail?”
“Tarantulas crawl across the dusty rafters, but my eyes fill with pockets.”
“And I am. I am no Eye.”