Any attempt to circumvent the span of the building provided another almost identical wooded façade, and I couldn’t be so sure I had moved at all. It was another several months’ exhaustion, the same sand, the same house, the same panels of wood and decay, before, finally, a door, mysteriously ajar, revealed itself. It took becoming jaded for the house to be suddenly willing. I entered into a large dilapidated room heavily perfumed by an ancient dust and was immediately met by the figure, still suspended. He was upside-down, and I now could tell he had been this whole time. His inverted head registered as a normal face, but when turned right-side up would likely become an out-of-sorts monstrosity—that the look of his frown was really that of an abominable smile. Although suspended by nothing less than magic, it was evident he remained in a kind of distress from the great pressure of his body falling upon his head. He wore papal clothing and held a golden staff, his arm suffering from having held it without cessation, until now.