Whose fists flip the planet like a pancake, upside downside up, in the frying pan of space - then spin it on next like a spinning-top, whirling away on a black, wide-open, table-top? Whose eyes race along the surface of the oceans, dodging the dark ridges down in the depths, chasing the blue of the horizon, and on to the next continent - to dive down into a side-street of a coastal city, where the grey shapes of sky-scrapers rise from the sidewalk, and coffee shops offer themselves up like tick boxes? And then jumps to the view from a million miles of space, without even breaking a sweat in their socks, or on their forehead, to start in a second the whole journey again? Not God's, not Hollywood's with their SFX, nor NASA's and their super computers - but anyone's. Anyone. Anyone, who can download that link to their notebook or desktop.

Anyone, of one in lucky seven, at most. Question, Fist: for you of the lucky few, does that fairy tale still exist - that tale of the Door of doors? Which opens into the world of love, forever warm, welcoming forever, the door of the golden Her, the eternal Her - the door of forgetting, the door of blindness, the door that shuts behind it the cruel uneven planet, that stops its spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning?