Yves recognised those innumerable contacts pass through him. He felt their succession within his own form. But even then, as he concentrated on these shifts and surges within him, he could scarcely conceive, or even conceptualise what he was. His existence was a composite of greys and refracted edges gathered around one central certainty. Beyond that core, Yves became increasingly approximate. To his own sense and senses, he was a fractured silhouette of shard and shade.
In that, he resembled the other shapes he had found wandering this plane. He had first encountered them near the lighthouse. Some displayed discernible structures. A few possessed enough symmetry to suggest the idea of purposeful anatomy. Fewer even emitted a sensation of fleeting beauty, such as the faintest shimmer of wings unfolding around them, or perhaps a trace of pattern sustained through several changes of form. Most were grotesque. They bore projections for which anatomy had no provision and language no useful name: hooked extrusions, disquieting clusters of points, mouthlike divisions that opened onto nothing, or far too many filamentary ends that writhed in all directions without any discernible aim, like maggots that had infested a corpse.
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