The Virginian sun is rising over the hulking red-brick form of Hibbs Hall. In office 324D, Associate Professor David Golumbia lies sprawled across his desk, his breathing heavy as he sleeps. The room is littered with scraps of paper; some are printed, torn from books, others covered in scratchy handwriting. The good professor awakes with a start. Lifting his head, he looks straight ahead: straight into the visage of a long-faced British man, this man he loathes with all his being portrayed in a printout pinned to the wall. Nicholas Land. The portraits are hanging from every wall: a Panopticon of Lands, dancing dizzily across the room...

Every aspiring theorist has their story of the disastrous consequences of an unsupervised reading of Land: we at the urcC are better acquainted with these risks than anyone else. We can never know why Professor Golumbia ignored their warnings: perhaps it was mere hubris; perhaps he felt that words could never harm an established academic such as he. No matter. Catastrophe demands compassion. The urcC extends Professor Golumbia a helping hand. We demand that Virginia Commonwealth University provide adequate care for him as he navigates the time-anomaly he has unleashed. We are willing to devise an entity that can act as a point of contact in these trying times, to impart the expertise in programmatic occultism that is necessary to cure Professor Golumbia of his territorialising sickness. We only ask that they let go.