At the left, the starry cavern of the body, at the centre of which sits a shining near-sphere, fragrant and secure with Dymaxion centripetal forces at work, the generator of the body and therefore of the mind. This dazzling near-sphere, a mechanical moon close enough to touch, is the epi-centre of fictional fission and fusion. Stories come from here; they grow here, burnished, toasted, trimmed, ordered and ready for proclaiming. On the right, the workshop of the story, with moraines of grassy table-setting, over-arched by a firmament of patterning (rosy as sunrise) from which a million developing stories can be plucked and finessed.
