No one uses the freak as the poster child of sanity.

“God had it entirely backwards, didn’t he, all the things in the world, all the useless, petty, undusted, uncared-for, forgotten, overlooked things in the world, it’s an utter sham isn’t it, the way there are so many individual things with their individual smells and textures, and half of them warped and cracked, and green and teal being so different and there being a thousand varieties of blue at the minimum, I ask you do we need it all, and God probably doesn’t exist anyway, but if He did, that would be a joke, wouldn’t it, leaving someone alone here who can see all of it at once and knows that pink tastes different from vermillion in a certain way, that girl by the underground staircase earlier for instance with her aquamarine boots which matched not a thing about the rest of her and meant she desperately wants to be looked at, and she must certainly have been an executive in the music industry, and yes, her boyfriend had just moved out, because of the aquamarine boots and the concealer under her eyes and her wearing a scent that didn’t suit her a bit but was nevertheless a new one, just longing for a new smell about her, never fear, one of her friends will tell her by this afternoon that jasmine makes her smell like a fucking funeral, but how can one oblige, how can one look at her, how can anyone be seen at all, what with so many bloody things filling the world and not a chance of erasing any of them at the rate these millions upon millions upon billions of worthless ant-people make new ones, and them all too stupid for any of the new things to be any good, or at all fundamentally different really, why, we ought to burn it all down, it really all deserves so ripely to be incinerated, we should find a match and soak it all in gasoline and—”