Against the weaponed horizon of that giant’s resolution and a terror so common as to be de-barbed by dailiness, one may wonder, what dwelling is this? Cushioned cradle that may spring in the next breath catapulting some feeble syllables of the last exhalation on an often named but never understood strangeness into the end of history. But it never had a mirror or a bare face, did it? We knew it only ever by its masks. Which one is this?
