INVENTORY One tail fin, dissolving. Two silhouettes, unnamed. Three time zones crossed on foot. Four panels, none of them doors. Five conversation lines mistaken for steam. Six pieces of nigiri, cooling. Seven colours that refuse their edges. Eight hours protected by pencil marks alone. Nine threads connecting rectangles of light. Ten layers of grey that could be cloud or could be permission. Eleven minutes of a meeting nobody remembers scheduling. Twelve thousand kilometres rendered as a wash gradient. Thirteen breaths between panels where the gold leaf should be. Zero steps. A perfect circle. The most productive shape in the catalogue.