For once we are on the other side of the wall where, egregiously,  Pharaoh has no daughters; rather he IS his daughters. Here, the silent spasm and gentle energies that relieve all gendered fixities, allow a passage from quality to quality of such sublime suppleness and subtlety that the spirits that flit into being through the bouquet of certain floreate distillates, commend their own evanescence as the trick which qualifies the officiant at the dawn rite, like they say, to have it all.

And yet the working that established this happy deliquescence retards the temporal mechanism with such thoroughness, that all the stages between even momentary forms, manifest too; a putrescent angel glares from a purple countenance; the wall from which we have decidedly emerged is not without signs of the tear; and for a moment a face at the center of the image seems to project itself in ignorance of its own transmigration.

Nevertheless, the general temperature is dawn breath, that, like a certain fawn, shakes its being free of disturbing recollections redolent of recent slumber and passes without preparation to a nymph’s sweet welcome, as if, though rushing on the winds of a most ebullient temporality,  regards not time at all.