Notes and Reflections on Books and Media
by Hannah Leitheiser
Skunkie was fluffy. It was the result of purpose, straight like the lines of a railroad track extending past the horizon. It came from the radiant vision inside himself that was the product of effort and achievement. An awareness of the confidence he felt and he asked no permission. He looked out at the other surfaces, smooth and hard, and saw himself with the plucked threads of objective reason and function. The sanction and meaning that was his alone. His right.
And it was right. The only thing that could be right. The deepest kind of significance. He had never allowed himself to be textured for the sake of another inanimate object, and he never would.