It was a resentful thought, as most of Gariath’s were. Thoughts were too flexible, they could be changed at any moment, so what was the point in using them? You have given me much. Words were much more solid. Once words were spoken, they were there forever, hanging in the air and impossible to ignore. Like scent. Your eye, your hatred, my life … Gariath could not afford words here. Words were breath and breath was too precious to waste, where he clung precariously to slick, slippery walls by the tips of his claws. He needed it, as rare as it came, to keep clinging there, keeping himself from sliding down a vast and gaping darkness. It’s disgraceful that I don’t just let go and let this be over. Thoughts weren’t enough. But if you accepted that, you wouldn’t be you. He snarled, dug his claws in. The thick, fibrous tissue of the walls did not yield easily, but he felt liquid gush out from the scratches he carved into it, pouring over his hands. The floor shifted violently beneath him.
