[/td][td]

[div style="width: 300px; max-height: 100px; height: overflow; overflow: scroll; padding-bottom: 5px; margin-top: -5px; font-family: georgia; font-size: 8pt; color: #152232; letter-spacing: 0px; text-align: justify;"]He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something — something inward and important — that he was striving toward some goal, perhaps very hard to attain.

Ivan was no glutton, but his modesty was not entirely due to virtue. He had a lack of taste, he had faulty eyesight, nothing was new. Eating was like throwing coal into the engine of a train to keep it going. It was why he chose a mouse easily and simply. He carried it by the tail, wondering what sort of life it had led, if it was sentient or not. Blah. Sentience.

Caustic's agreement and response did little to sooth the storm of envy and injustice in his being. Caustic's observation was no different from his own, but it appeared that he accepted it. Ivan found it difficult, although it slapped him in the face like a brick. It's just not fair. He wanted to repeat, but he knew it to be worthless and even perhaps childish. "What's the point in being good, if bad things happen to good people." He only murmured under his breath. It was the age-old question, and he found it in these notes and books. The Prussian philosopher tells him that the good person deserves happiness, but it's not guaranteed. But why? Ivan'd lament.

People who seek truth are no more than little children waddling around pestering their parents with "why? why?". Maybe he is boring Caustic, or he thinks too little of him. Ivan respectfully turned his gaze from the wolf as he ate, staring into the dark eyes of his mouse. If only he could be rid of his sentience and live each day with no fear of the next, and no fear of thought.

He ate in silence.