Alexander Yosif Ivanovitch shuffled unsteadily across the worm-eaten floor of his dilapidated dacha. His calloused feet scraped along the warped boards to the kitchen, picking up splinters as he went. Already the sun had set and yet Mila had not woken. Taking up the spoon, he rapped the egg soundly. Then, peeling off the shell, he dug in the spoon and pulled up the first bite. What was this? Mila, what nonsense is this? He demanded, my egg has no yolk! No answer, eh? Ivanovitch tore .

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And the donations, well, the smile and pat on the head was like gold coming from the old man. That was when it was fun, while it was harmless.

It is phosphorescent white, muscling into the darkness, pushing it out of view, out of consciousness. Reality is now the stuff of pigments and photons and nothing more. As he searches through the lit maze for reason, for a meaning that he believes will rest on the crux of his being, all this perfection moves further and further away. The moment passes and is gone.

There Must Be Some Way Out of Here. There are many months left of these monochromatic matte paintings and Eloise wants out of here. She sees these colors, this time, though. They are lights, little colored lights.