The Marl was darting about madly, seeking, seeking a thing like itself.
I believed the other Marl—no, the Pat—because I wanted to believe.
Was I the only Marl who metamorphosed into this state of rational entity?
The Marl's whole existence was that of sickness—of loneliness, which is fear.
The other Marl perceived me, darted frantically toward me, then slowed.