My eyes are full of sunlight, and my head is full of worms. I stand up high on my pedestal of wood, and everything is heavy and warm, like a wet dream or an ugly person with ugly thoughts. The laundry is sweet and soft, and the pegs so much colored candy in a glass window, and under my hands they click and turn like little rainbow beetles or miniature birds-of-paradise with hard, sharp beaks, trying to tell me things only pegs may understand. They eat up the cloth and I help them to fly. With mournful eyes they stare at me, willing me to speak back to them. In my head the white maggots squirm and burrow, and in the lucid madness there is a voice telling me that if I touch anything, anything at all, even so much as a finger on a patch of sun, I shall fade away and disappear.

Fie! cried the little ghost girl. I shall be a wraith no longer, but a thing of the light! 
I am excessive and brutish and sensual, and I am rough and uncouth and unrefined. I am unclean, a heathen, and my hands are white and bear no sign of labour.
I lie prostrate by the coolness and am full of senseless undulations; I am ever vain and imposed on my own magnanimity.
Loose my fire, youthful soul! What have you done, and whence go you, and what seek you?
Take upon thyself then the confirmation of the cloak of righteousness, and get you up and go where it is that you will. 
Poor, wretched soul. Disgusting youth, who squandereth time and pillageth trust and honor and friendship. Have you no outwardly moving morality? 
I write not my life but my death: this entire satire is a faithful eyewitness account of how I die and how others have died before me. 
It is dastardly and poorly and wretched, wretched, wretched. Am I, are we then nothing but fools in the dust?

It will happen before you know it(the spark that kicks it off, I mean) and then there will be wind and waves and sun and sky and sea and sand, and I assure you that for a time you will perhaps be the happiest person on earth. It doesn't sound very believable right now because all truly good things never sound like truly good things when you first hear about them, but in time it will change and you'll see that what you thought once upon a time long ago in a another sadder, grayer place doesn't account for anything anymore. That the time which you sold your soul for to stop never did stop. It went on and on and on like those trains that explode into angular and spectacular pieces in those movies they make to make you believe that their version of the world is real. Soon you'll lose the alma mater of your growing and formative heart. Soon you'll fade away. Soon you'll become a grain of sand on a beach on the moon and die and then disappear. 
You will dance and dance and dance. Your feet will break into red butterflies like a beautiful new phenomenon they will name after you:

LE PAPILLON ROUGE, LA FLAMME DIGNE, LE CIEL ET DANSEUR. 

And the new people you will meet will give you entire lists of words for all the new things you will see. Every single thing you ever knew to be right wasn't and every value you set for yourself becomes only a dimly-remembered nightmare in another world that might or might not have existed, in a reality that might or might not have been real, in a time that you might or might not have grown up in. All I really want to do is disappear slowly and quietly on a slow and quiet day on a slow and quiet train bound for a slow and quiet place, where it rains often and the sun is cold and golden. The fade-in fade-out of this life has made me l'ombre de la nuit: I speak in the dead and sublime languages of peoples who died hundreds of thousands of years ago when nothing existed but pure and simple TIME.

Suddenly I feel as though I have been blind. I do not see the things I should.