By human standards, it could not possibly have been artificial: It was the size of a world. But it was so oddly and inextricably shaped, so clearly intended for some complex purpose that it could only have been the expression of an idea. Gliding in polar orbit, about the great blue-white star, it resembled some immense, imperfect polyhedron, encrusted with millions of bowl-shaped barnacles. Every bowl was aimed at a particular part of the sky. Every constellation was being attended to. The polyhedral world has been performing it enigmatic function for eons. It was very patient. It could afford to wait forever.
With a propensity for lenghty internal monologues, I have come to realize that nothing is new but merely appropriated from something else. There are no new ideas. Although this fact alone may be the source of eternal despair for any creative person, it is both humbling and inspiring. All I can aim to be is a maker - a maker of things; a maker of visual casseroles.