There in the gypsy’s creation. It pulsed around us like a thick red vein; a timeless conduit that promised to hold a time machine between worlds. And, I’d have it no other way, as every time machine should come appointed with the comforts of the sultans as they slowly wind throughout the edges of the Orient. The colored lights cast new tones and shadows upon the rich, supple textures. Small windows around the edges gave outward portal-glances to worlds and times that whizzed by, each one inviting a new pause to the story. The light, I noticed, did something unexpected as it tumbled and flowed and rolled across the skin, drifting over small sinuous shapes as the crimson rays slid up and over the flowing curves of a dune in the middle of a faraway desert. The lines would only stay a moment before the wind blew them into a new form. The light tore time away from the shapes, and I could not figure out what was happening until much later in the story.

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