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  You used to be all green segments  neatly arranged  in a perfect little row. Nubbins for legs,  little orange Velcro hooks for toes.   With such machinery  and such control, you’d inch along — all day and all night.   Beneath your bronze helmet, serrated mandibles, clacking chitinously, mindlessly macerating all leafy matter in your path. Frass burning out your ass —  a nonstop energy extractor, a tireless wormy expander and contractor. Gross, Orderly, and Acceptable — You stuck to the contract. Kept the pact.   Until, one day you blacked out. Woke up in a bag,  a disorderly warm soup,  a dizzy swirl. You felt viscerally (even without viscera) that to be suddenly  Wormless and Formless was wholly unacceptable.   How does the formless find form?   In your terror, you tried force, you tried will, you tried plans and panic. Alas no, you stayed soupy and droopy.   Then one day, just when you thought  you were ...
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