As I look around at this gorgeous, awful, enormous thing made in the image that I wrote drunk and stupid, there is one last horror to be swallowed down. The four cardinal souls are painted in perfect balance around the Chamber. In the west is a prisoner held to a stone table by spiderwebs, and over that table stands the figure of an otherworldly gaoler whose body is made entirely out of eyes. Does the captive flinch from that scrutiny, or yearn for it? And which are we to identify as a friend? Perhaps they can no more be separated than Prometheus and his eagle.