His eyes clicked and whirred. Focusing, zooming, refocusing, sharpening, enhancing. He had been blind at birth; a peculiar foible with which he had the temerity to persist until only recently, when new technology had made it possible for him to see, and, perhaps as recompense, to see better than most. Zooming, infra-red, recording and playback – he could even adjust the colour balance to make overcast days seem sunny. These extraordinary, exciting gifts of vision, which seemed almost like the bestowal of some ancient Greek god, had added an entire layer of existence on top of the world he already knew.
He took his new eyes with him everywhere. Watching, looking, leering, peering, peeping, peeking, glimpsing, glancing, gazing, goggling, gawking, staring, spotting, spying, surveying, discerning, ogling, beholding – he did it all, simply because he could.
Then, of course: the movies. Galleries. Museums. These temples of vision, heretofore mysterious and uninteresting, they stood before him, bold and naked, and declared; “Cameras and recording devices are not permitted within these premises.”
At least they let him read the signs.