Little man points his lens at me. Slicks a plate with silver and scribes in his journal, ink too fast for his giddy hand, for thoughts so grand—like all creatures of brevity, racing to be The First.

My nakedness: their Great Exhibition, clustered beneath gilded domes, jangling with important noise. Not-a-one looks up to compare their flat-faced facsimile with my unblinking eye. So full of their magnesium-flash cleverness, not-a-one wonders what I see.

Little fleeting motes, blooming in and out of focus. Scurrying to capture what they can: tiny corners of knowing within the roundness of all they do not.