̶ Sprague, that’s the Carpet of Memory!
̶ And that’s the Black Prince!
̶ Indeed. So you know Paul Klee?
̶ Of course. I’ve often visited Bern.
̶ In Zürich, Sprague, I too have Paul Klee in my bedroom.
̶ You do? What a coincidence!
̶ Yes. A poster of The Tightrope Walker.
Risk: The refusal to reduce yourself to your consciousness.
̶ So you admire the art of the funambule?
̶ I do.
Was it the kiss you blew me that made the Black Prince glow as I cast my gaze around the room? Was it the splendour of your smile—tossed over your shoulder just before you stepped into the corridor—that made the Carpet of Memory scintillate? Or was is simply my heart reaching out to yours that transfigured everything?