I am feted. I am faced. With a carbuncle skull atop an uncoiling, and with a langsam line, I and my mates course down Pericles' rocks. In just a trickle.

Unamused as we are, we inoculate. And innovate, and we scatter like darkness before drapes drawn back, or beneath the lifted stone. Because, you see, the mantles we tuck up to the notch, and the liquid wimples, are no lesson. Are no excreta. Are no phantasmagoria of foreboding for your ungulate life.

They are raiment.