Never congratulate the Fates, emir;
it makes them self-conscious ... undependable.
A point to remember should you ever set down a hundred hours of pseudo-autobiography:
Lessons in Light Lycanthropy: seven essays by Philip Gordon Prismaggot.
Now came thunder, like sounds in the intestines of distant elephant herds; now, my curtain rose as eerily as a medium's table and flopped back to lank alignment with the wall.
I saw the point:
In the quest for the woman-in-skirts, some of us fail to notice that the woman-within may be partly and helplessly a perverse wench, attesting by default to all the oversights of her masculine lord: us.
It was a remarkable discovery and explained occasional tendencies of numbers of my gentlemen companions.
Given another five years, caliph, and you could resolve this situation—this exotic act of the inner She who rules whatever crannies her master shuns in conscious male conceit.
If you happen to be the kind of person who, out of mere idleness, or from scientific motive, or in our poor common cause, is willing to trephine his own soul for a better look, you will find such dances going on there, such images and integers of the complicated flesh.