From #802
I'm not sure about this party deal... Not much of a social creature. I have a trunk of unused costumes bought over the years from chickening out. Some of them are from the third grade and utterly useless. I should just not go.
This is a dark house, very big. I made it myself, Cell by cell from a quiet corner, Chewing at the grey paper, Oozing the glue drops, Whistling, wiggling my ears, Thinking of something else.
It has so many cellars, Such eelish delvings! U an round as an owl, I see by my own light. Any day I may litter puppies Or mother a horse. My belly moves. I must make more maps.
These marrowy tunnels! Moley-handed, I eat my way. All-mouth licks up the bushes And the pots of meat. He lives in an old well, A stoney hole. He's to blame. He's a fat sort.
Pebble smells, turnipy chambers. Small nostrils are breathing. Little humble loves! Footlings, boneless as noses, It is warm and tolerable In the bowel of the root. Here's a cuddly mother.