The wax death mask of reckless, neckless Marie Antoinette. Above and around here, a helixing line of descending energy, a vocal collection of insinuating nonsense-violence that pushes into the top of her head. A larger version of this gyre, the very image of her developing concept of history (she has a lot of time to think, now, which is good, since it is cold and it takes a long time to even remember what words used to be) spins next to her. Most likely, this gyre is just one of the lower gears of a cotton candy machine, itself just one attraction on a long promenade in the eternal festival land that the world of the dead has become (over-population requires lots of entertainment).
