She sweeps down, her arm loose, digital paint strokes sweeping through the meniscus of this gate: through this gate, she paints, and paints, and paints.
Elizabeth is dancing, dancing with her sensors on her hands and head, in the living room, working her way into the frenzy that will yield the pattern that she needs:
This gate is mysterious because it is not two- but three-way, one pair back and forward but the other up, and the up is a shimmerer, not realistic at all, but an out-of-body experience, murderous and thorough, a frenetic unstoppable drug of emptiness, expansion, the second world for serious now, but she just wants to play with it:
So many worlds, so little time, painting these gates, like the gates of physical memory, like the gates of Sumeria, like the gates of the first city that was, indescribable, because there were no words--
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