He blinked black flakes from his camera eye; but over that eye, a thin grey stain remained, like a faded tattoo of a black narcissus.

Willis Winter had found himself a bridge to sulk on; had made of himself an installation.

Willis Winter transitioned from the auditorium into a different volume of the Tower of Art. The room was still between drafts.

Deep in its bowel, where the ink floods roil, something dawned on the Tower of Art.