In order to install a large, four-dimensional, stainless steel dodecahedron in the confines of my own home, it was first necessary to procure an instance of the illusive beast. But polytopes being what they are—which is to say, four-dimensional—the market for them was impossible to find, much less perceive. Purified 4D is too powerful, hallucinatory, and dangerous, I guess. So I settled for the dimensionally diluted stuff, a 3-D shadow, procured from a crystal math dealer, whose contacts on the 4-D black market ("Coxeteria") are impeccable. We made "arrangements". After several months' wait, a pair of shadowy figures delivered (which is to say, isometrically translated in a group-practical manner) an eerie, metallic, orthogonal projection to my house in the dead of night. The situation was ... edgy.

Very few of these stainless steel wonders exist in our 3D world. One hangs publicly at the Fields Institute in Toronto. Another is owned by the Princeton Math Dept.. A handful are owned privately. For some time, I furtively stored mine in the garage, out of harms' way, far from the prying eyes of the polychoron paparazzi. But already, the intoxicating, polytopamine beauty of its both golden and silvery symmetries was starting to rush to my head, clouding my rational perceptions of ordinary ratios. It was not just one pentagonal tunnel of love at first sight, but six of them, all facially intersecting in one big 12-sided regular dodecahedron, the center of 60, no 120, dodecahedral cells.

The only remaining problem was, where would I put this wonderful, 5-ft wide orb of welded wireframe? Would I even be able to get it inside the house?