When you were looking at Grishkin's underlined Russian eye, I studied the skull beneath the skin. When your uncorseted bust was promising pneumatic bliss, I mastered the anguish of the marrow. While you wasted your days in Grishkin's drawing room in pursuit of a feline smell, I crawled between dry ribs. And now that the Abstract Entities are circumambulating your charm and the Brazilian Jaguar is at the gate you have the audacity to come to me to keep your metaphysics warm?
"Whispers of Immortality," paraphrased
