From marching ice-crystals, we suddenly shift to a pan upwards, across the hanging  pierre  of a  cave  crystal-hive. The entire  cave   pierre  has the  couleur  of wax. Or those soft contact lenses you took up, the gift given you by the strange optometrist you met in the subway... they're not plastic, but wax, softly melting now across the  surface  of your  yeux  (you can wash it off, but you may not even notice the change, or you might like the change, or the thoughts and feelings that come with it).     Et cependant j'étais toujours Jacob Maker. Donc, j'avais déjà mon nouveau corps.