Directions are meaningless here. There is no up or down, no right or left.
Only the place, only the idea. But somewhere not here, sometime not now,
there will be no place to go. There will be no movement to speak of, and
nothing to say. The way will soon be barred in every direction. There will be
no flames, but the fire will be real enough.
Oaks grasp at the fog. Gnarled branches like arthritic hands, reach, come up
empty. Pale epiphytes hang from the fingers.
Like Piranesi's carcere, these are prisons of the mind, prisons of our own
making. On the stairs to nowhere, absurdity devours its own tail. We try to
build things from our imagination. But nothing matters. In the end, it will
The path is marked with yellow paint. Sometimes there are arrows, and at
first they seem to point the way. Upon closer inspection, they point in all
directions. Odd though, how I came in fighting demons, and left stronger,
much better afterwards. I'll give back with my words. I hope they reach far