For as its belt sparkled and glittered now in one part and now in another, and what was light one instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body: of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom wherein they melted away. And in the very wonder of this, it would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever.
	...	I was Jane's stocking. I was a handmade craft gift from Jane's grandmother. Jane was only three years old when she got me. She wrestled all my beautiful decorative sequins, felt stockings and chenille snowbuddies off me. I remember her mother was quite worried and she threw me away into the stinky garbage compactor with Christmas dinner leftovers. I died from all my broken bones on December 27.