Sfumato at the corners. A stage set in gloom. The desire of the west preparing for portraiture: the Mona Lisa waiting inside Jocasta's last smile. Her risen sigh inside the darkness that is the darkness of what came, and turns in death to its new definition: that which is torn from the offenders' cries, to wait two millenia for its realization: a woman. A suicide. Her imperturbable eyes.