Arcta Hydraia in bed by herself, wearing nothing. It was a good Vedani bed, of variable shape and texture, solid plush bioplasmic. These were nice quarters, heart of the blocks.

In Arcta’s hand, a leaf of paper from a small notepad, crinkled from being in a pocket. The words on it:

angled arched
corridors
shivering elements
a dance of memory
deep within
somewhere
beyond the bottom
on the other side
of the wave
a sound transcending
time and space
I hear it

({something somewhere anchoring to this spaceless reel of wide-ranging presence. little if any control. there is this, and there is this. far. far. seeing. this will be hard to remember, or will it?})

She recalls the mysterious yet apt correspondent during her years at the Institute of Sphere Dynamics, whose dialogue sparked a couple theoretical breakthroughs. Nothing classified, just good erudite banter with a developed mind.