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I was looking at the tubers. I had come from the rot. I had thought I had found the eyes, and I had, after a fashion, but they were no longer eyes. They were tubers, because that is what eyes become in the process of ripe and rot. And now the tubers are gone. There is no space. There are figures. There are figures, yet there is no space. There is the representation of figures, but there is no space. There must be space. There must have been space. There should be space in the future. Space has been executed. Space is executed. Space will be executed. But it is not my mind that creates such a thing. Rather, the execution of space creates my mind. And there are the figures, also created. Here, then.