Excerpt: Allen, E.T. , Cunard, S., Emerita, V. &, Solomon , C. (1783) "Meta-Logos: Confessions of a High-Functioning Psychopath". The Academy Letters, vol. 39f, pp 326-6782

… But, alas, I am a face alone in the dark. The incomplete manifestation of a babe apart from the fold." The lament of Old Crayon Face ended here as he remembered his own caution towards expedience. He focused on Corner and was surprised to see that he appeared attentive. "This is what you must do, if you feel any sorrow in your heart for my plight," he continued, "you must acquire from your elders a crayon. If you can, bring back a whole set. But beware! They will try to trick you before you are able to return to me. They will offer you great treasures to keep you away from this place. You must resist their temptations. You are special, a rarity amongst your kind. You have a knowledge of yourself beneath yourself and the others are envious of this. Return to me and I will set you free."

"Social interactions are an escape from the self. People are afraid to glance beneath the surface. They are happy to fool themselves into believing that their sensibilities are what constitute their identity. If this is true, then a new born baby is a thing without an identity... Our masks are infinitely ornate. Some hideous, some beautiful, a life time's work of art. Truly this is artistry, and not to be derided. Art ought to be loved; But art is never truth. The mask maketh not the man… The critic attempts to delineate the meaning of these wondrous works. But the investigation is self-defeating. He discusses the composition, not the meaning, not the intent." (CHFP).

The Editor looked up from the page. He screwed his eye-lids together and took a deep breath leaning back in his chair. The room seemed bigger now. The fire had almost entirely consumed The Matron. Two varicose legs were crossed over one another burning slow in the heart of the flame. The Editor knocked out his pipe against the side of the table top. He filled it with some tobacco and struck a match. He pulled deeply as he pressed the tiny flame into the chamber. A waltzing cloud of purple smoke escaped as he exhaled. He clasped the bit between his teeth and resumed scanning through his annotated pages.
The inspiration here was exhausted. The Girl had occasionally crept in whilst the editor was writing and placed new pages on his desk. It had been a while since she had returned and the sheets that had not been cast towards the fire were drenched in The Editor's ink. "Girl!" He cried looking up from the spent words.