He had been tweeting – “It matters not that I am an
egg. It is only an icon,” or “Millions of others use it.”
Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself. It was all in
vain. The twitter support team approached him.
Stalking his page, enveloping him in account verifications.
It was this mournful process that made him suspect.
He neither saw or tweeted that he thought my presence on his
page caused the hacker to come.
When I waited a long time, very patiently, without seeing
him tweet, I resolved to favorite again. Just one post.
So I favorited – you cannot imagine how stealthily I chose the
post- until, like a tugging on a spider’s web, he saw.
The egg was tweeting at me. Full 140 character tweets, all
directed to me. I grew furious as I gazed at the egg.
I saw it with perfect distinctness – a plain white egg, that
single solid color around it of the most hideous shade.
But I could see nothing else of the tweeter or his tweets:
for I had fixed my gaze precisely upon that default icon.
And have I not mentioned that it is skill, not madness, to
be a Twitter master such as I? I saw the direct message
It was a low count. Just one message. Quick and dull. Hidden
in the icon of the envelope. I knew it well.
It was typed privately so only I could read it. This
increased my fury like a drum stimulating a soldier’s courage.
But even yet I refrained from tweeting. I scarcely
retweeted. I was motionless in my favoriting, and unfavoriting.
I maintained my gaze upon the egg. Meantime the hellish
direct message count increased. It grew higher
and higher every instant. The tweeter’s terror must have
been extreme! He direct messaged me more every moment!
I have told you that I was nervous. And now at this dead
hour of the night, amid the sleeping followers,
so strange a growing number of direct messages gave me
uncontrollable terror. Yet, for minutes, I did not tweet.
But the direct messages grew in number! I thought my inbox
must fill. And now a new anxiety seized me-
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