It is the fragile maggot. How it twists and kicks urging itself to life, confused and witless in the progression. Its blind reactions are that of cognitive nature. Its extensions are still interior; eyes a foreshadow, head an advanced allusion. One wonders what the tiny cell of a brain serves for this memory of the unborn.
"How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-strings: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls."
- from As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
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