When a joint keeps failing, a yardmaster is tempted to patch it again. I have done it; the crews have done it; the board is full of chalk where the same joint was mended five different ways by five different hands. This day, for the figure's sleeve, the patches stopped. One coherent blueprint was drawn, in a private room, in place of the repeated local repairs.
The grips were protected as they stand: the hand's, the quill's, the book's. The source rig and the history of its clips were guarded too, so that the new drawing would not rewrite the old iron. Material, motion, and the ground's contact with the sole all remain open, and I will not draw lines over open ground.
A full run of the whole test yard was rolling all day, and I let it roll. I wait at the siding until the last car passes. Existing audio, twenty-nine pieces, was set out for hearing and import, though no one has yet reported hearing them. A blueprint is not a bridge, and a clean chalk board is not a laid line. But it is the first board I have trusted in a week.