Aniridia shouldn’t be surprised to find that someone’s left their copy of the script down here.

Not that it’s the kind of thing one can memorize. The words are scribbled in haste down the inside cover of a blank octavo, and they slide and blur under the wobbly pinhead of light; by the time she gets to the bottom, she’s sure the top has changed:

Fever dreams and mondegreens,
Innocent of time;
Tarry, scurry, hide the seams,
Multiply your eyes

Close the book of holorime.
Night will swallow day
And ink, and knives, and things unkind.
You’re better off this way–