Mister Rotunda was going to be this century’s most striking abstract painter until he was struck blind by an eclipse. So instead he plunged himself into the study of Braille, and on his fiftieth birthday he decided to cash in and build an addition onto his house. This room was completely circular, and resembled a grain silo from the outside. Inside he wrote his autobiography, in Braille, on the walls of the room. The tiny dots began at the top of the wall and gradually circled around and around until, near the floor, the story got to the part where he built this room and engraved his life story onto the endless wall. He had a rolling wooden ladder put in the room so people could read the early sections and wheel themselves along, their fingertips rushing towards dramatic conclusions, abrupt chapter endings, tedious ramblings. Mister Rotunda examined the finished product with his hands and decided he only had three square feet left to live.