Finally, I broke, ate, and slept for twenty hours, and then awoke in an exhausted, placid clarity that felt as if the silver had woven itself into my bones. I was not ecstatic any longer, I was enlivened, uplifted. Anaximander had solved the problem for me, had as much as told me how to deal with it. I broke my dreams into pieces, confined each fragment to a single canvas which might—must—connect with another and another, so that what was in me was imperfectly rendered by being multifaceted instead of holographic, but at the same time achievable by a man painting in the actual world of three dimensions, without the power to reach through the skein of his work and arrange additional layers to be found by a probing eye. The viewer must learn to see my work in a way different from other art, must allow—indeed must reach for and embrace—radical alterations in perspective. Out of Ethiopia would come an art that demanded a new mode of perception to be understood: the mind of the viewer would not only be changed by the work itself but would undergo willing modification simply in order to appreciate that work on its own terms. To reach the new world I would express, my audience would have to make a commitment, to cross a small but significant Rubicon of the self and meet me halfway.