It first came to me with two black eyes and too many ears like an unsettling and estranged relative. Its colors shifted and moved in waves. I asked it its name and it proceeded to tell me every word it had heard throughout the year.
The second time I saw it, one of its eyes was sewn shut. It had pulled its ears from itself and held them by their unpierced earlobes like a bouquet. I asked it its name again and it proceeded to tell me that both its eyes were open and handed me the bouquet of ears.
The third time I saw it, it wore many, many layers and slouched forward like the elderly. It had found three new ears to reattach to itself and had sewn them onto its innermost layer of clothing. I asked it its name and it proceeded to tell me that it was complicated and in another language.
The next time it came to me, I did not open the door. Its voice was like slime that had been left out and crusted over. It called out saying that it wanted to tell me its name. I did not want to hear it.
Then I crawled to it. I sat on the opposite side of the door before slowly getting up and opening it a crack. It slithered in, looking down, hooded by its cloak which went swishing across my floor. I asked it its name and it raised its head. Its mouth was no longer there.
I pleaded with it to tell me its name, but it could not manifest a mouth. I asked if it could spell it out. It proceeded to show me long, thin fingers that were covered in bark, like sticks. Since that day, it has been trying to remove the ears from the insides of its clothes and keep its eyes open.
It has yet to manifest a mouth.
