. . .

It troubles Hans. It thinks it does. But how can it actually know?

It is only a little wooden doll with two left feet — three, if you count the foot it cut off from the centipede — and not an actual boy.

It is only a boy in a Cartesian cage, unable to experience the actual thing.

It becomes sick with this — with the knowledge that it will never amount to anything. That it cannot amount to anything. That it is only a doll of wood with its eyes sealed shut and its ears sealed shut and its head stuffed full of lies.

It makes its way to the lake of Pepsi. It stares into the chthonic lake-god’s eyes.

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