With myopic — and usually bloodshot — eyes always rimmed in pounds of black eyeshadow, I’ve never been too partial to the theory that the eyeballs are the windows to the soul.

But then my near-sightedness does tattletale on my devouring books with fine print in bad light, blood vessels whisper of sleep deprivation, and too much eyeliner hints at my fashion whori-ness.

Maybe there’s something to the cliche after all.

Still, I lean the other way, using my eyes to take in ...