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False starts and abortions accumulate in his home studio, weighing him down like ballast, compressing him. (He only wishes he could wake Emma so easily.) He works late and sleeps later. As often as not he sleeps in the cot in Emma’s room, to spare Michelle from his semiconscious flapping about.

He tosses and turns, bedeviled by dreams of plagues and prostitution. Leo can’t seem to get a good night’s sleep. Maybe about the time he started running out of ideas. He can’t quite pin down when that straitjacket stopped chafing. Maybe he still can it’s been so long since he was afforded the opportunity.

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There was a time when he could have even given them that, when he knew how to make even Brutalism beautiful. People don’t want strength disguised, they want it in their faces. Every year the floods rise higher, the fires burn hotter, the winds blow harder.

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His classic creations are as resilient as they are beautiful seven Richters would barely crack the windows. He wants to subvert boring straight-line geometries with naturalistic evocations of driftwood and coral. He wants to stop merely building things and go back to sculpting them: walls that segue seamlessly into ceilings, lights that shoal like bioluminescent squid through corridors and conference rooms. He is so tired of letting weather and microbes push him around. Leo’s creations once aspired to inspire now they do little more than accommodate the next outbreak. Structures once designed to celebrate the material now exist only to withstand the next hurricane.

Objects in the rear-view mirror are farther than they appear. Nobody seems to have noticed yet, but he knows it’s only a matter of time. In terms of sheer inventory, Leo’s productivity is as great as it’s ever been-but somehow the new pieces aren’t showing up in the monographs or the ecstatic retrospectives. The publications may be recent, but the works they explore have been around for years. But the signature pieces are the better part of a decade old, now. Critics continue to marvel over the way Leo Gregory can craft a whole hypnotic universe from a blob of glass and wire. Oh, the work has lost none of its grandeur: his buildings remain timeless, his objets d’art still serve up facets upon layers from each new angle. He coasts on the thermals of a legacy fading behind him: a documentary here, a retrospective there, some greatest-hits collection down in the corner for the dilettantes. Series: The Tales of Gorlen Vizenfirthe.Series: From the Lost Travelers’ Tour Guide.People of Colo(u)r Destroy Science Fiction!.

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