though which he could hear a some kind of semi-human moan—an orgasm or a singing or confusion among sleep, or all of these at once tangled together—and yet the sound seemed to him second nature to the air here, another part of all our manner.
Hung on the wall from end to end and all he saw so many massive pictures, frames of him caught from all those unremembered years, yet in each one doing nothing—just there standing at the lens—nowhere ungone. In each image he looked older—his face looked burned—his cheeks half see-though and covered with tattoos he could not remember getting and which were no longer there still on his face. Up close he even looked worse than ever—the cells destroyed there, filled with jacked up crap like tiny cities. The closer he looked, the deeper periled—populations being ripped apart, maggots screwing on wide white altars, money smothering the trees.
Person 811 felt someone behind him. Someone unnumbered. Someone behind him—behind him—diamond air.
He continued turning but could not make the airspace frame his eyes.
On the flipside of the mirrors in the room that held Person 811, the surface held another room—a long thin room encircling the walls. Inside this room a phalanx of cameras had been arranged to records the innards of the air. The cameras’ lenses were wide and curved each as skull-sized globes—they had been used in prior years to record some of the highest grossing cinematic bodies in creation, thereafter replicated on the earth uncounted times.
Upon the father’s rising from the box into the twin space—his body already spinning and spinning after something—the lenses’ glass began to fog. The glass dripped sweat like human skin and rumpled with the smell of metal burning. The cameras had been designed for this condition. The cameras’ makers understood certain things about Person 811—what that number itself meant—who he had thought he’d been, and who he was now, who he had once wanted to be, what he would actually become.
Across the bubble of the lens eyes, a flush of bacteria, made for cleansing, became released. Their tiny translucent tongues absorbed the liquid, became drunk, allowed the screening to stay captured clear. The image of Person 811 continued to hit tape, replicated into planes. The icons wrapped around against each other, stored in spools that rolled in gyration in rooms behind the room where the cameras watched this body move.
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