The child of fish gnawed at the bone. The table was dark because her eyes liked dark. She rarely got up from the table: to relieve herself, to stretch when there seemed no room between her ribs. There was always more. She slept there at the table. It suited her to be half tucked beneath, half slumped over. She imagined herself as having two distinct portions. Her upper half chewed and swallowed, it used its limbs to slough the food towards her maw. The lower half was more refined, and increased but never by its own efforts. It is always the same thing with children--they imagine themselves to be something new, exotic, with a purpose. They imagine themselves interesting. She once had a thought, but dismissed it as a play of the light that sometimes filtered down to her from the surface. She was not a fan. The thought moved across the floor like a ray. Others like her were startled, but not one of them looked up from its table long enough to engage the thought. Leisure. Without it I believe there is little that is not of consequence.