He is about to leave the library and go on a pen hunting excursion to the pharmacy (and he now remembers that he has been called 'hunter') when he looks down at his hand. It is the same hand that had been severed. He now sees that it has been transformed, slightly. The index finger has become a quill pen. He does what anyone would do with this discovery. He stares at the pen/finger. His mind cracks a little. Or, it should be said, a little more. He backs against the circulation desk and sinks down into a sitting position on the floor. He says to himself:
I have lost it.
And then he has another thought:
I have not lost it, although I wish I had. There is insanity all around me. I have been plunged into insanity, it has enveloped me and saturated me. And yet it has not yet become me.
I wish it would.
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