Higher tears match teeth with sighs, those mouthless organisms, escapees from deserts which require no walls. Deep days sleep through themselves, never knowing how good they could have stood to be. And that the job of it, the work's description: reflections are as real as their progenitors and neither do a thing well or blurred. A pile of pandas next to a mound of squirrels; the scene asks, what could have been, and the script answers, why. Questions are the parents of solvents and they do the same dissolving, like detectives obsessed by crime, turning around the only part of a clock that matters -- the center dot, from whence the parametric world spurns everything but the centrifuge's innermost heart.