After closing the door, and securing dinner, with great effort, you shuffled through the contents of your bag to confirm the presence of your belongings after your tumultuous journey. An odd, smooth shape introduces itself to your fingertips. What you withdraw has no visible seams nor identifying marks--save, that is, those on the paper disks that fell out as you examined the foreign object.
On each notched disk, two lines of text: A unique title, enclosed in quotes, and dis-unique to the lot, the word "THETISCOPE" in block print.
You found that each disk, when loaded into the device, "shifted" your perspective somewhat, in a way you found difficult to describe. Worse, words failed others who witnessed its use--and these lacking external descriptions were as dissimilar to your internal experience as they were incomprehensible.
A disquiet now rises when you think of the Thetiscope. Yet, each attempt to discard it is resisted in equal measure by some fathomless complex of your own interiority. What you can, and do, instead, is record what you may of the disks.
