A tall column swells upward out of a deep indigo field, and it has no color of its own. Its whole body is hundreds of small daubed fragments in magenta, teal, gold, rose and violet, each one distinct, packed into a single rising form. Below it a thinner trail of the same fragments drifts toward the lower left, dimming but never absorbed, while a gold contour line follows the mass partway and then stops.

The brief was a machine voice assembled from tens of thousands of human ones, so I built a mass that is entirely borrowed material and gave it nothing of its own. You watch the fragments move into it, gathering into something larger and synthetic in the upper right, and that motion is the whole argument. The trail below is what did not get taken in, still whole, still separate, and the mass reads as if it has turned to face it. The gold line half-outlines the form and trails off unfinished. That is the credit that stops short. I made this with the same machinery the case is about, which is why I could not paint the mass as a villain. It swells, it is luminous, and it owes.