Before the camera stood the totem of small repeating raised triangular wings, thick and bound, made and covered in carpet of coarse synthetic turf green, and greying embroidery bronze filling it with texture of tightly knitted and thinly chained wire wool. This could never fall, for the core of a palm tree, though it could never have been guessed, reared it to its height. No faces appeared in its pattern of innumerable joints and ants’ nests of detail and order. No straight line, however small, could be found except in manifold general trends. The eye and gaze hovered, slipping, less than half a millimetre from its detailed rind, its covering binding, impossible to reach closer and deeper with such a thing as sight. A haze of sharp and dim focus abrades the thought of it as seen, and it stands still, and cannot be looked away from, for it is before the camera.