A bee-hexagon suddenly falls out of our  yeux , into the untextured  sombre . Down into the  sombre   machine , where a system of levers and lights will measure its weight against an unknown standard... don't worry, this valuable hex will be certified as a-ok, useable as local currency, and with a clack the great vending  machine  will grind, and deliver whatever soda or destiny or weapon we wanted to buy... the purchase dropping with a heavy thud out of the invisible universe inside the  machine , dropping like the  lune  out of the  ciel  onto Jacob's helmeted  tête .     C'était l'épouse morte de Zoltan Abbassid. Elle appelait de la lune.