Some might call this a return to form. Some may see that the circle is a cross-section of an aetheric arrow. But now we shall exchange authorship, sidestepping into a parallel dream. Those of you here for the peanuts can get off at the next exit. Only existential bread and circus now.

When working on a puzzle, there comes a time when one must stop calling it that because it has turned into a picture. You can feel the scarred edges of each piece, yes, but there is no denying that what you behold is more than the sum of its parts. So it is useless to speak of a process, to account for vectors of trauma and ecstasy, to endlessly explain to the fascinated faces. When that last grain of sand crashes into the lower bell of the hourglass, well… one knows just the sort of beast they’ve become.