A curious thing, dark and never admitted. The passing Spring breeze, and the joyous things it carries (new love, celebration, jubilation) provokes thing's bristles. Good tidings often greet cynicism, or for thing. Thing retreats, smokes, broods. Often only within a dizzying inebriation that thing will shuck its guards, darkness tips and pouring from its mouth the inadmissible things once held fast in sobriety.

Dangerous momentum on a wave of spirits; the secret thoughts have manifested - no longer aether - they parade in the spaces between our faces and the lulls in pleasant conversation! Ah! Trite they may be! But thing, is there nothing that escapes your unforgiving gaze? A cold scrutiny. And ah! God! The shock when it turned on yourself!

Now it's thing that lies helpless in Athena's temple, cast in salt gazing upon Sodom. Cry not, Lot.