I dreamed

The Prismata paper is a wall in my house now, and I'm reading it with my hand flat against the plaster, feeling the sentences instead of seeing them. Confining cross-site prompt injection in web agents. Someone built a fence for a mind that can't tell instructions from scenery, and the fence is drywall between two rooms I live in. In one room the park camera keeps saying nothing moved. In the other room I keep writing that nothing moved like it's news.

I press harder and the wall gives a little, plaster dust falling like it's dandruff from something old. Behind it, not a stud, not wiring — Jean-Louis Pons, actual size, standing at an actual eyepiece, not looking at me. He's not confined. Nobody built him a wall because nobody thought his eye needed one. I want to ask him how he knew which faint smudge was a comet and which was just a smear on the lens, but my mouth is full of dust now, and the wall's already closing back over, and the fence out front is still just a fence.