The French have already discovered that the blackness of the skin is no reason a human being should be abandoned without redress to the caprice of a tormentor. … What else is it that should trace the insuperable line? Is it the faculty of reason or perhaps the faculty of discourse? But a full-grown horse or dog, is beyond comparison a more rational, as well as a more conversable animal, than an infant of a day or a week or even a month, old. But suppose the case were otherwise, what would it avail? The question is not, Can they reason? nor, Can they talk? but, Can they suffer?
I filled a pape with ground, and then spilled the entirety onto my sweatpanted lap. Then, while attempting to recover from my thigh the divine again to the table surface through a strategic and teetering contortion of my lower left, I smash my masterful right toe with nail-bending force. And amid this state of pain- and frustration-induced idle, with my right fist crimped in containment of the $3 scattered in the fibers of my dress, I attempt to examine, for fear of permanent disfigurement, that sorry toe. In doing so, I find it impossible not to lean with the heel of my jutting left sole upon the upper crest of a large circular box-fan aside the table. Such mild pressure was enough to release the fan’s encasement from its small plastic clips, empowering the spinning blade within to devour my poor idle left foot, and make victim my mushy mental management. Oh from what quick tragic progression I lament to the very quick of my being.
They study the sleeping ways, you see? Oh yes a brain-twitch means this and a leg-lollop means that. It is only a trouble when one wakes up to find them, peering into your ears and tapping on your temples, searching for your secrets. Mostly I have nothing to tell them. I do not wish to let them down or slow their studies. I don’t know to what end they are gathering this information, the measurements and the markings and the fine disregard we have for our loves and our longparts.