A glazed green eye, the closest Kimya had ever come to a classical self-portrait, lay in two pieces, one on its right shelf, one on the floor, cracked through the pupil, and Willis Winter was unstoppering glass jars and sniffing the contents.

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.