We don’t know if there are more like us elsewhere. We only know that our colony resides on Margaret Benson’s body. It is a curvaceous body, to say the least. And when we travel, there is an unfailing change of topography; even the same beaten paths have disoriented us by the ancillary growth or the gaping purge of landscapes. Every 11 suns or so we are lyrically thrown to the ground by stitches of pain, this is followed by an innate and incorporeal demand to rise and perform a march towards another portion of Margaret’s body. Usually far away, 5 to 6 to 7 moons far. This ceaseless, tightly formed treading continues until the uncanny strain in our bodies is too unbearable. Insofar as it is actually perceived to be coming from the outside, like loud, grating noise. Maybe it is coming from the outside. We can’t tell. All that is known is our immobility, our paralyzed senses and so we are left with what our blindedness can see.
We have been with Margaret to the discotheque and when we use our blindedness to see it is like being there. Bits and pieces of stark, coruscating sight; bits and pieces of slightly discernible sound; bits and pieces of organized scents; and bits and pieces of salty sweat on our tongues. The rest of the time it is a deafening ball for groping monsters. When the senses are arrested panic or mania should be nearby. There have been plenty of times when one from our colony either cannot cope with this undergoing and breaks down until he or she is unconscious from a lack of exhale. Or one attempts to overcome it through euphoric, mad pacing, which is eventually halted through being held down by the others until sleep triumphs. This is our plight as creatures and preservers of Margaret Benson’s body.