You close the door and set down the warm glass you just received on your bedside table. I must not drop the glass, you think, staring cruelly down its stem. You place your hand against the wall and push: upward, sideways with a tilt, or widdershins. It would be impossible to describe how you turn off the lights, but the contortions are familiar to you.

The eight-foil room is, perhaps, the least absurd pocket of space you will encounter during your time in this world. Nothing screams mundane familiarity like a solid floor and ceiling, you've realized. The walls are uncertain, but even they can be partially patternized.

Do you remember the big date?

Sella dries the gavel.
"It's too wet to continue," she says, staring at the falling droplets as they disappear.