While I was just now reading a random small section of Cronopios and Famas from a copy I found left sitting in a small stack in a small room, a tiny hundred-leg bug suddenly scurried out from between two earlier pages and onto the white around the sentence I was reading. Close up, in my face, a little word. I screamed, threw the book down, killed the bug, looked at its smashed parts. Pretty shortly I came back to reading, suddenly creeped by the pages and nervous to go further on each word. Now suddenly it seems pointless to be writing anymore until I can figure out how to make that happen again, from the other end.