The fading orange and red light of the sun filtered through the Eastern wall’s shuttered window. The light, along with a nearby lamp, dimly illuminated Stephen’s studio, a crowded place filled with dozens of paintings stacked or hung in neat rows. The thick cloying smell of oil paints purveyed everything. Most would call the place cramped and stuffy.
But not Stephen.
He was sitting on a simple stool, inside the confines of the area but lost in another world as he began his newest work on the easel. And it was work. Unlike all of his peers who called themselves artists and their creations art, he was a painter. He did not wait for emotion or inspiration to create his pieces. Instead, he sat and worked, using an FB pencil to sketch the concept in his mind onto the scratch canvas.
He didn’t know what it would be yet. There was an image but no solid Encodement, no decision on the things that he would include which would embed meaning onto an onlookers mind and truly convey the weight of the work. Encodement was a complex thing, for paintings. It was the perfect creation of lines, the strategic spacing of visual items, the precise texture of the coloration that elevated any work from compelling to visceral.
But while complicated, Encoding wasn’t difficult for Stephen, merely time consuming. It took many hours for him to mentally solidify an Encodement, but he was almost finished doing it for the work in front of him, his 1798th painting.
That was when he heard the sounds of footsteps, the jangling of keys, and finally the opening of the door to his work area. He didn’t bother to turn around. There was only one other person who had a set of keys into this place, his work agent.
“Hey Stephen,” Vanessa said.
“Need something?” He absently replied, still focused on the canvas.
“No, just checking up on you.”
“Alright.”
He went back to drawing, quickly sketching out the image of a waxing crescent moon, erasing it, and then redrawing it in a slightly different way. It took him three iterations before he was satisfied. The result was a near perfect arc for the moon’s “spine,” with only the tiniest of wavers at the bottom end to prevent the image from detracting from the Encodement. He moved onto the next object, the sketch of a mountain.
“Is that your next piece?”
Oh, he thought, she is still here.
“Sketches for it, yes,” he replied.
Stephen began drawing an inverted V to start.
“They’re good sketches.”“Thank you.”
He added some lines to denote the icy peak.
“I imagine you’re working on optimizing the Encodement.”
“Yes.”
Certain areas gained light shading to establish the gradient.
“Do you…” her voice trailed off for a moment. “Think that it’s necessary?”
He stopped sketching.
“What.” He asked, voice flat.
“Well, your art is already so good,” she said hurriedly. “So I was thinking that–”
“Vanessa, you know that my work revolves around perfecting Encodement.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“What is this actually about?” Stephen asked. Though he knew the likely reason.
“I heard about the riot.”
“That was not my fault!” He immediately protested.
“Stephen, you got detained by the Inquisition.”
“And I got released,” he said defensively, “because it was clear that it was not my fault.”
He heard a sigh, followed by some head scratching behind him. “Be that as it may, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened either.”
“I was also absolved of guilt for those events, too,” he reminded her.
“Sure, but anyone can see a clear pattern here. At the very least, your art can–”
“My work cannot do anything,” he insisted. “If people are stupid enough to let a simple work make them do dangerous behavior, then that is on them.”
“Stephen…”
He gave a frustrated sigh of his own and put the pencil down onto the easel. “What do you want me to do, Vanessa, paint with less effort? I cannot do that.”
“Then maybe add some, what did you call it, noise?”
The suggestion angered Stephen. “No.”
“But Stephen–”“Absolutely not. Do you know what noise even is? I might as well scribble all over a work with crayon.”
“Surely–”“No, Vanessa, I refuse to give less than my all in a painting and cannot believe you asked me to do something even worse than that. In this business, I am the one who paints and you are the one who sells, so stick to managing the stuff you understand, alright?”
A pause, stretching into a long moment of silence punctuated only by the scrabbling of pencil on paper as he resumed drawing.
“You know what?” She said at last, her voice weary. “Fine, do what you want. It looks like I can’t get you to do anything else.”
“My point exactly,” he replied.
“But find yourself another agent.”
Stephen stopped drawing. “What?”“If you can’t make any changes, then I can’t do this anymore. I quit.”
“But you can’t…” his voice trailed off. He turned around to face her.
Vanessa quitting was bad for Stephen, really bad. She was the one with the network to make sales, the one who handled the finances, and the one who did god knows what else that came with the business of painting besides actually using pencil and brush. If she left, Stephen would be in an extremely tenuous position and probably unable to continue painting undistracted for a long, long time–if ever.
And she knew it.
“I can,” she said, “and I will.”
He looked into her eyes, saw the determination in them, and slumped his shoulders in defeat.
“When you approached me,” he said softly, “all those years ago, you promised me that I would be able to focus on my work, that I’d never have to compromise my paintings. You promised.”
“I know,” she replied, “but that was then and this is now. I enjoy your art and love seeing everything you make, but I can’t do this anymore, Stephen. You get to be in here while I’m out there dealing with the messes that these paintings cause. I can’t do it anymore, and I won’t.”
He tried to say something, anything to convince her that his paintings weren’t the cause, but no words came to his lips.
He watched her leave something on the table, the sound of metal lightly clattering onto it.
“I’m leaving my keys for your things here, Stephen,” Vanessa continued. “If you change your mind, call me and we can work this out. If not…”
She let the words hang in the air, exiting the room and gently closing the door behind her. Stephen could only stare at the wooden frame and listen to the soft pattering of footsteps that eventually drifted into silence, unsure of what to do next.
He was upset, frustrated, angry. Flashes of other emotions surfaced too, but he didn’t have the words for them. He had never been good with words, and only really had one means of expressing himself, the only thing he turned to when unsure about what to do.
He went back to painting.
Except he couldn’t, because while the studio was quiet once more, it was no longer silent in his head.
“It is not my fault!”
He put the pencil down on the easel and marched over to a pile of painted canvases, his most recent works. The one on top was exactly as he had remembered it. A wreckage, a stormy sky of glass cracked like forks of lightning. The dome of a reality collapsing. It was good work, but that was also all it was.
No matter what anyone else says.
It wasn’t his fault when painting 1605 was claimed to have started a riot, or when the person who commissioned painting 844 tried to rejoin his deceased wife after seeing her again on a canvas, and it wouldn’t be his fault if someone did something terrible if they saw the work in his hands now. You couldn’t make someone do something they didn’t want to with just a picture or a few words.
Otherwise, his father would have stayed all those years ago.
Stephen placed the canvas back onto the pile and went to head to bed for the night. As he fell down onto the mattress littered with dry brushes and even dryer paint, he noticed the light of dawn through his window.
Well, good morning to me.
He sat up and decided to go get some coffee.
–
Cafe Aestelios was a tiny place, with surprisingly almost a dozen people inside despite it being near the crack of dawn.
Or perhaps it was unsurprising. Stephen didn’t really know and didn’t really care. They were all distractions, noise to him. So, once he got his steaming cup of coffee and a scone, he sat at the table furthest away from anyone else. There, he began to eat while contemplating what he would do next.
He’d have to check his savings first, and then probably figure out the sum total of his current expenses. Though his paintings sold well, most of the money went back into his projects. It was not cheap to find and source the perfect brush or paint for a work. If he couldn’t sell any more paintings, he’d probably have to move, and even thinking of the logistics for that was terrifying.
After a bite of the scone, he anxiously wiped his mouth with a napkin before sipping his coffee. Though he had asked for milk and sugar in his drink, it tasted acrid and sour.
Did the cafe use spoiled milk?
“Stephen, hello? Greetings to Stephen, hello Stephen,” a voice said.
It snapped him out of his thoughts, and he realized that someone had sat down at the table, facing Stephen. The man was wearing a suit and a bow tie. It took Stephen a moment to recognize the green eyes and smile lines.
“Thomas?” Stephen asked.
“Hey,” his former college roommate greeted him, “how’s it been?”
“What are you doing here? I thought you moved across the country.”
“My job decided to station me here for a while.”“I see. Welcome home.” Stephen took another sip of coffee, winced at the taste, and then set the cup down. He went back to thinking about his predicament.
“What,” Thomas’ voice intruded again, “not gonna ask me what the job is, or how I’ve been?”
“You would tell me if you wanted to,” the painter replied. He couldn’t remember what Thomas had studied in college, but did recall it fitting the extremely chatty man.
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Said man in question shook his head. “Classic Stephen. Okay, I’ll go first: how have you been?”
“Fine.”
“What are you doing these days?”
“Painting.”
“Still?” Thomas lifted an eyebrow. “Wait, as a job?”
“Yes.”
“Full time?”“Yes.”
“Congratulations, I hear that it’s pretty difficult to do that.”
“Thank you, but I don’t really know anything about how difficult it was. I just painted.”
Thomas leaned in. “But it’s difficult at the moment, right?”
Stephen furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“Stephen, you do that thing with your fingers when you’re stressed.”
The painter looked down and saw that he was rubbing the napkin with his thumb and index fingers. He quickly dropped the piece of paper. “No, I do not. Everything is fine.”
“Stephen, c’mon. It’s me, Thomas. Talking might help, and an outside perspective most definitely will.”
Stephen looked around the cafe before giving a sigh. “Alright, fine. It is my agent, she wants to quit.”
“Really, why?”
“It is a long story.”
“It’s morning, and I’ve got all day.”
So Stephen told him the gist of it. How his paintings had allegedly caused incidents and how Vanessa had pushed for him to alter his works.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Thomas interrupted, “the protest down on Oddenway, that was because of you?”
“No! That is the point!”
“Right,” his ex-roommate held up his hands placatingly, “but you were the one who supplied the inciting piece of art that people got upset over, right?”
Stephen glared at Thomas before uttering a begrudging “Yes.” The painter was almost certain that Thomas had been studying for law, with how he was being questioned now.
“And now she thinks you need to make changes so these kinds of things don’t happen again.”
“Yes.”
There was a brief pause as Thomas sat and thought, tapping his chin silently. Then he asked. “So why can’t you just replace her?”
“It is hard to find an agent, and no guarantee that the new one would not place the same pressure on me.”
“Okay, how about selling your art yourself?
“Selling paintings is all about connections, Thomas. If you recall, I am not exactly a people person and do not have the network to make consistent sales.”
“But your art has been on the market for years, wouldn’t your name be around by now?”“I had Vanessa market my works anonymously and took commissions solely through her as an intermediate.”
It was a decision he was slightly regretting now, though not by much. Stephen really enjoyed his privacy.
“Okay,” Thomas said, “so what I’m hearing is that you’re facing financial problems if your agent quits, and that replacing her would be extremely disruptive and possibly impossible.”
“Yes.”
“And I know you refuse to do what she wants, but I don’t exactly understand the implications. What exactly is this noise you mentioned? They didn’t mention that in any Encoding classes. And how is there sound in visual Encodement?”
“Noise is…” Stephen’s voice trailed off as he tried to find the words. After a moment, he gestured around. “Do you hear the other people?”
“Of course.”
“Can you hear them well? Does the sound of them talking make it easier to understand me when I speak?”Thomas furrowed his brow. “No.” Then a flash of comprehension. “So noise is anything that detracts from the ‘conversation’ or point of a piece’s Encodement.”
Stephen nodded. “Muddying it, making it unclear. Things taking up mental resources that could be devoted to taking in the actual point of the work.”
“Huh, that’s an interesting way to look at Encodement,” Thomas said. “And the reason why you refuse is because you are actively trying to remove noise in your efforts to paint the perfect image.”
“Exactly,” Stephen replied, happy that someone understood him. He took another drink of his now cool coffee which suddenly tasted much better.
“But does it need to be perfect?”
And nearly spat it back out. “What? Of course it does. Why would I bother painting anything less?”
“Stephen, the point of Encodement is to convey a message. Sure, precise Encodement is great–impressive even, but so long as the audience actually understands the message, isn’t that all you really need? I can’t imagine it’d be that difficult for you to make the paintings meant for sale include some noise while keeping the private ones you do for fun pristine.”
“I can’t do that, it’d be… wrong…”
It would be a compromise that compromised his integrity. A betrayal of the one constant in his life that got him through everything else. He couldn’t find the words to express it to Thomas, though, but it looked like he didn’t have to.
His ex-roommate nodded. “I understand. But that does put you in an even worse spot, doesn’t it? Two bad options, and no real room for compromise.”
“Yes,” Stephen sighed, “I suppose I have to find another agent, because there’s no way I’ll be able to handle selling everything myself.”
“Or,” Thomas said, “you could find a third option. Something that satisfies what your agent wants in addition to what you want.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then that is no help,” Stephen frowned.
“Sure it is, because now you’re thinking about it. And just because the solution isn’t obvious doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist. You just have to find it, and I do have an idea on where to start.”
“What is it?”
“Not what, but where.” The man looked at his watch. “It should be open by now, follow me.”
–
“This is a terrible idea,” Stephen said.
“This is a great idea!” Thomas replied. “When was the last time you’ve been here?”
The two stood in front of the entrance to Oddenway’s Arts Museum, a monolithic building of classical architecture which boasted the status of being the country’s most expansive collection of works across all genres.
“Not since college, on the mandatory field trip for a course.”
“So, what, six years ago? I thought for sure that you’d visit at least a couple of times to get, you know, inspiration for your art.” Thomas waved his hands a bit to emphasize.
“No. I do not need inspiration to paint works.”
It was the reason why he never called his paintings art. He worked on them to the best of his ability until they were complete, and then moved on. There was no need to find or wait for something as intangible as “inspiration.” It was a waste of time.
Like right now.
Stephen stared at Thomas’ back as his ex-roommate got into the short line at the booth to purchase entry for them both. He knew he should be going back to his studio to do something more productive, like paint, but somehow the man had always managed to rope Stephen into whatever ideas he had. Mildly annoying, is what it was.
“Okay, I got the tickets, let’s go!” Thomas called out to him.
Stephen shook his head, but followed Thomas inside.
The interior of the museum had many corridors, each with a separate theme that ranged from philosophy to pure aesthetics. Soft lyricless music played in each one.
“Explain to me again how looking at others’ works will help,” Stephen said.
“It’s not that complicated. Everything here is made by different people, with vastly different viewpoints. Maybe something will show you how to paint the way you want without the risk.”
There is no risk.
But he was tired of voicing the argument, and so merely nodded and looked at what the museum had to offer.
The place’s exhibits were vastly different compared to what he had seen six years ago, but were still the same in terms of the types of things he saw. Marble statues on display, paintings on the walls, sculptures on daises, essays in laminated books, and songs audible through headphones connected to electronics.
“Anything?” Thomas asked as they passed a mural of kaleidoscope butterflies. The fractures caused by the clashing colors of pink and green created a stark contrast.
“No,” Stephen replied, “there’s nothing worth looking at so far.”
Though Stephen tried his best to see them differently, the only things he ever noticed were the inconsistencies in the Encodement. Imperfections which detracted from the experience of what the creator was trying to convey. In the statues and sculptures, cracks and warps. In the handwritten pages of the essays, wavers in intent telegraphed by the shaky lines. He couldn’t even get through any of the songs, each sounded like so much noise without meaning.
“Well, we’re not done yet,” Thomas replied. “What about this one?”
The indicated statue was one of wrought iron. A rendition of the half-complete Frankenstein’s monster. In the throes of creation, Frankenstein looked at his project with ardor and fixation. But after, in horror and fear. Stephen was unimpressed with the idea, but quite impressed with the craftsmanship. The way the stone was shaped such that the “pieces” of the body looked like they were not only sewn together, but had been done several times before the current result, was clever. An excellent Encodement showing passion through repetition.
“Actually, pretty good,” Stephen answered. “The topic was well selected such that any flaws contribute to the piece rather than detract.”
“Do you… agree with what it’s trying to say?” Thomas asked.
Stephen frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The statue is Encoded to show obsessive passion and dawning horror, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, most people would argue that it’s a statement about irresponsible creation. He loved what he was doing, but not what he did.”
“Is that what you think it says?”
“What, got any other ideas?”
The painter looked at the statue, trying to find any other interpretation, “No I do not.”
“No, you don’t see another interpretation? Or no you don’t agree with the interpretation?”
“Both, neither–look, I do not know Thomas,” Stephen said, growing irritated. “What are we doing here? Sure, the incorporation of flaws into a work to make it more effective is a good idea, but I do not see how this solves my problem.”
“As far as I understand it, your agent wants to quit not because of what your paintings are, but because of what your paintings can do to people–allegedly.” Thomas quickly added. “That’s why I was thinking you could look at others’ works and see how they affect the audience.”
“Affect the audience?” Stephen asked incredulously. “It is not that hard Thomas. A work Encodes a meaning, and the audience perceives it.”“Yeah, but then you have to look at how they react to it.”
“That is not possible. Everyone would react differently, and it would be their choice on how to react. The work wouldn’t do anything.”
“So you’re saying it’s easier to be happy when you look at, say, a sad work?”
“I am saying a person can choose to be happy even after seeing a sad painting,” Stephen replied impatiently. “Thus, the painting would have no actual bearing on a person’s actions.”
“Painting? Stephen, I was talking about works in general.”
The painter paused and realized that his face was reddening. At some point, he had let the discussion encroach back onto ground he had already tread and protested against–and he was reconsidering. Suddenly, he lost all urge to continue humoring Thomas’ adventure and just wanted to go back home and paint.
“Thomas, I am finished with this. I am going home.”
“What? But we’re not done yet!”
“This has been a waste of time, and I refuse to continue wasting more of it.”
“Then just one more area, okay? Please? Let’s at least get my money’s worth from the tickets.”
Stephen sighed. “Fine, but only one more.”
“Awesome!”
Thomas led him out of the rhetoric corridor and into the main hall. They went past several more sections without going in, as if his ex-roommate already had a place in mind.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see soon.”
A consulting of a map on the wall, a turn down another hall, up a flight of stairs. They walked for what felt like forever until they reached a place Stephen knew by name but had never visited.
“The Blue Room? Seriously?” He asked.
“You say that works don’t affect the audience Stephen, but here’s an entire section claiming otherwise. Works so potent that they have to put them in a special area and tag them with trigger warnings and a calm environment. I’m certain whatever’s inside will change your mind and maybe even give you a different perspective on painting altogether.”
“If you say so,” Stephen said, trying to sound unconvinced. In truth, he was a little intrigued at what could lay within. Things certified by the curators as having heavily impacted any onlookers, what could they be?
The hall leading into the Blue Room was drastically different from the rest. Where there was once the pale color schemes of granite and stone, now they were surrounded by walls painted pastel colors and deep blues. The entrance to the room was covered with a curtain, and a sign with the aforementioned trigger warning. The two ignored it and stepped inside.
The moment his eyes took in everything within, however, he stopped.
The place was more a hall than a room, each work given as much space as they needed to not crowd a person’s perspective. There were a few statues and books, but mostly paintings. Dozens of them, lining the walls and each distinctly familiar to Stephen.
Because he had painted them all.
Silently he ambled into the room, staring at each painting in disbelief. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach as he went down the row, one by one.
“Stephen? What’s wrong?”
“The paintings,” he replied. “They are all mine.”
“All of them?” Thomas asked, surprised.
Or, at least, trying to sound surprised.
Stephen wheeled on his ex-roommate. “Did you know about this?”
“Know about what?”“Thomas!”
The man sighed. “Yes.”
“How?”
“Your style is distinct.”
“But it has changed a lot since you last saw it.” Then a thought struck Stephen, quickly becoming a sickening suspicion. “What was your major in college again?”
“Is that important?”“Just answer the question.”
Thomas looked him in the eyes. “Functioning Rhetoric.”
And suddenly a lot of things began to make more sense to Stephen. How Thomas found him in the cafe, how Stephen was convinced to go on this whole trip to the museum, and how Thomas knew about Stephen being the creator of the paintings around them despite the fact that they were sold in a fashion that made him anonymous to the public. Functioning Rhetoric was a major involving practical applications of Encodement instead of applications in works. Stephen had often scoffed at the major, but he wasn’t laughing now. Because there was a department of law enforcement that often recruited from the major, one he had dealt with many times now.
“You are with the Inquisition,” Stephen realized. “That is your new job.”
Thomas sighed again, “It’s called the Bureau of Encodement, Stephen.”
The confirmation angered Stephen. Thomas wasn’t necessarily what Stephen would call a friend, but he was someone Stephen trusted. To abuse that trust hurt Stephen and he found himself at a loss for words again.
Eventually, he managed to say, “What does the Inquisition want with me now? What was the point of all of this, some new form of crazy questioning?”
His question was met with an incredulous stare. “What do you think the Bureau is? All the department does is investigate individuals connected to incidents involving intentional Encodement and see if they were malicious and need to be stopped. No, this has nothing to do with the Bureau. I just saw your file one day and decided to find you and talk. After our conversation at the cafe, I wanted to try and help you.”
Stephen didn’t believe Thomas. “How has any of this helped me? All you did was make me look at a bunch of works while lying about your job.”
“First of all, like you always insist, I can’t make you do anything. I made some suggestions, then a request, and you decided to agree to them.”
The painter flinched at the remark as Thomas continued.
“Secondly, I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask. You’re not a bad person, Stephen, and I consider you a friend. But you rarely look beyond your canvas or even outside yourself. It was my hope that you’d gain a new perspective by being the viewer instead of the maker of a work. Maybe change your style to make a better impact on others.”
“Well, it did not work, Thomas, because works can not make anyone do anything,” the painter replied stubbornly.
“You keep saying that, but take a look around. Res ipsa loquitur, Stephen, the evidence speaks for itself.”
Thomas motioned with his right arm in a lazy arc, indicating the entire room. Stephen followed the motion for a moment, taking in the reality of his situation. The paintings, his paintings all crammed into one place because of how triggering they were. It was the very proof of a fact that he had long denied. It was a lot to process, to realize. He closed his eyes.
“We are done here.”“Stephen–”
“No, I said that I would look and I did. I am going now. I hope I never see you again.”
There was too much going on, too much noise. His head was full and talking to Thomas any further was pointless, so he turned around to leave. But Thomas stopped him with an arm.
“Stephen, just think about what I’ve shown you today, please.”
“Get out of the way.”
The arm dropped and Stephen walked. He wanted to get home, needed to get home. His thoughts, the sound of the other visitors, the supposedly soothing song playing from speakers along the halls, everything was too noisy for him to think. So he walked, the echoes of his footsteps contributing to the cacophony of sound as it followed him down the stairs and into the pattering noise outside.
It was raining.
–
A fumbling of keys, a stumbling of steps. Stephen made it back to his studio in a whirl of motions. Internally, he felt sick to his stomach, a swirl of emotions that he didn’t know how to process.
There was the sting of being tricked by Thomas, but also so much more. For the longest time, he had truly believed that his paintings were just that, paintings. They were a byproduct of the act of painting, sold only so he could continue painting, the only thing he really cared about. It was his idol, his church, the one constant in his life that he could always rely on to help him get through anything. And now, he was unable to paint the way he wanted to because it affected other people.
Vanessa quitting was no longer the main problem. It was a symptom of something that would follow him if he kept painting the same way.
Stephen flicked the switch for the lights and they dimly winked awake as he sat down on his stool. He stared at the unfinished canvas from this morning, trying to come to terms with what he had to do.
Altering his style fundamentally was the only choice. There was no way he could accept painting one way for sales and another style for himself. Neither could he paint something and then deface it. But try as he might, he could not bring himself to introduce flaws into any of his works.
Flaws.
He thought back to the statue of Frankenstein and his creature, the scientist doomed to be destroyed due to an irresponsible act of creation. In his mind’s eye, he recalled the flaws in the material and how they were used to contribute to a work instead of detract. Flaws that could have been noise but weren’t.
And then an idea struck him.
Stephen picked up his pencil and began to draw. The same topic, the same mountain and moon, but with one very specific change. In the past, he had focussed on painting works without noise, such that the work’s Encodement would be clear and without flaw. But now, he wanted to make something that was only noise.
It was an insane idea, because the idea of noise as a thing in and of itself wasn’t realistic. When one looked at something hot, they thought of something cold as its opposite. But what was the opposite of the idea that connected the two as a dichotomy? How could one have a detail that detracted from itself? In the end, Stephen couldn’t express it in words.
But he found that he could in painting.
He worked and worked on the canvas, scratching the pencil’s lead away until it was nothing but a stub and then swapping over to his many paints. He lost track of time as he entered the flow state, painting like he had before many times and yet unlike anything he’d ever done. Flowers, rosy hues, a sleepy village, and moonlight blue. He would wait for the paint to dry with impatience, and then continue adding the layers of depth he needed to bring his vision to life.
At last, he was done. He took a step back to take a look at his work and found that it was good. It was as technically challenging as his other works, uncompromising in the painstaking effort to make it, but it was radically different in what it tried to convey. Because when he looked at it, at the image that existed in front of him and its Encodement, he saw nothing. Noise so pure it made the Encodement silent.
He collapsed onto his bed after that, satisfied and finally ready to get some sleep. Only to have the light from his window flash into his eyes again. The second dawn.
… Okay, I can do one more thing before I get some rest.
Stephen pulled out his phone and dialed Vanessa.