As I go through the old ritual of adjusting the mirrors, I cannot help but see my own face, twisted, bloated, colorless. Hardly human anymore. The contours are too smooth, too regular. They had to fit so much into my head. Color it in black and white, I’d make a pretty good movie monster carrying the fainting woman away in my arms.
The world’s not so black and white as all that. In fact, there are many colors, many colors man cannot, but I can, see, and even in becoming a monster, I have not, I hope, become a fiend.
Tale Told 