The horizon tilted, turned vertical. Gravity followed.

We stepped through a door into a multi-level building. We can’t say for sure whether our perception was altered. We pull a chair towards a desk and sit. We grab a pen from the table.

Does it rest or does it stick? Drawing it over the table’s surface leaves nothing but colourless dents in the sanded material. Not real scratches, only blind hints at the linear movement of a pointed item under slight pressure. Gravity flips back to its familiar direction, though it doesn’t seem to affect the objects which furnish the room. They stick to the floor-turned-walls and morph into the shape of reliefs, indicating the potential of an altered perception.

There are multiple ways to approach this situation. But maybe we should just accept that a table is not a table and a chair is not a chair. Trace by trace, our pen begins to function again. The fragmented lines still don’t add up to any sense we might have been able to make of them. They are parts of a puzzle yet incomplete. We can only guess that their nature is modular: singular parts with no discernible meaning, potentially combined in multiple ways to constitute any number of entities.

There is no table without a table leg or a table top. There is no painting without a surface. There is no line of thought disconnected to its predecessor or successor. There is no fragment without a whole. Yet, we might figure out how to simulate a perceptive unbrokenness. Acceptance of this illusion is halfway toward the circular entity for which we aim. Our heads are round, so our thoughts can change direction.

Let’s try to draw a picture of that tilted horizon. The sun doesn’t sink, instead it moves to the left and sets behind a vertical surface. The final sun rays flood the room once more, rendering shadows of unfamiliar shapes. We sit down to feast at a table-turned-painting that mirrors what we have just experienced. We agree to the stipulations that come with gravity, and, suddenly, we tip over.