The Muse of Paranoia, rarely seen, is not invisible. Her supplicants are distinguished by stares intent not so much on as beyond their objects of scrutiny: documents fanned in suggestive disarray, dining utensils speckled in rust, unfamiliar hair spooling from a faucet’s damp handle, small talk rendered hieroglyphic on sleepless reflection. The impassive expression of those inspired is broken by the faintest fret of lips over whispered numbers, prayers, secular commonplaces. Repetition tempers visions at their apex, lulling witness to oblivious sleep. In the sobriety of morning, sunlit motes reveal the edge of a slipper, a pillow’s peak, the clench of a fist around itself.