485

There is no shape more eerie than a circle. Somewhere in the pages of manuscript after manuscript I come across its grotesque outgrowth, the ouroboros. Insisted upon by the centuries, by the kaleidoscope of men with a penchant for the obscure it strikes me as unthinkable, that these men could perceive how to swallow their tail. I, for one, am gagging on mine, choking on the heinous fact that the after-taste is so human.

489

If and when my efforts merit the revelation of the arcane word, I must consider great safety precautions. I must practice being mute. Above all, I must remain neutral. My intentions cannot succumb to unbridled whimsy like those reduced to stuttering in the shadows. 

490

NOONTIDE

Exceedingly I have come to surmise that the hands that fed me were those of a clock. Exceedingly I have come to suspect them. I realize interpretations of adulthood may vary. It is also questionable whether onset guarantees self-sustaining motions. Assuming I am an adult and can see to my human needs, what, then, is time still doing here?

Should I tell it?

Could I tell it… even if I wanted to?

If the subsequent moments deem me to be the impostor, know this: I’m telling time it isn’t noon.