Matevoy dreams: the Asian mainland scrolls beneath his steel-toed boots,
two hundred miles away in the general direction of down. [It's a dream, you see,
because he can't, his eyes sealed in death, not to mention there's nothing like a
window in the current design.]
He stands on a an unfinished grid of red steel beams high above the blue world,
falling and flying as the earth turns. [The altitude is wrong, too, as we are
presently on geosynchronous station above the bustling metropolis of Trondheim, Norway.]
He waves to some construction workers in the middle distance. They wave back.
[Some of us have something you might call "hands," but these are well below an
angstrom in length.]
Turning, he catches sight of the emerging structure, girders and pylons set in
fierce relief against the untamed sun. The shape is indefinite, or rather undefinable.
It seems to change as he watches. [This much is accurate; we rarely work to plan, but
prefer to move as our Rider does, through an architecture of dreams.]