(Open Anti-OTP!)
Diogenes is pacing in the library, a sense of urgency, perhaps nervousness, in his steps. There is something nagging at him, a voice which says to him that he has not completed his ultimate crime yet, that time is running short, that-- He stops and grabs a random book from the shelves, flipping to a random page, hoping that it will distract him.
"Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
Capricious monotone
That is at least one definite 'false note'."
Eliot. It would figure, wouldn't it? And then the voice in his mind begins again, and he slams the book shut, attempting to collect his sanity.
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker