The Curator.

You keep searching. In storefronts, galleries, bodegas. In daylight. In evening. In conversations with strangers around the wood of a bar. The bottles on the wall like polished crystal. Smoke and candelabras. The proprietor asking what it is you want, how much and when. The tree in the street is burning. You are told it has always been burning, and that its fire is all fires—the first fire and the last.

And like the fire, you possess nothing because everything is already yours.