The map-reader’s search for co-ordinates
I looked under the carpet, but all I found was fluff and floorboards. I looked in the bottom of my glass, but all I found was a watery reflection. I looked in the envelope, but all I found were letters that fell out into perfectly disjointed words. I looked up at the altar, but all I found was a deity suspended on wires. I looked into technology, but all I found were zeroes and ones and dots and dashes. I looked into art, but all I found were strokes. I looked inside books, but all I found were folds. I looked into poetry, but all I found was a b a b c d c d e f e f g g. I looked into newspapers, but all I found were events inconceivable, events inconsequential.
I rifled through your pockets, but all I found were keys. I picked up your telephone, but all I found were keys. I listened to your music, but all I found were keys. I scanned your map, but all I found was a single key. This does mean, however, that I can now understand your strange symbols, your gradients and grids, your concentric lines and haphazard thoughts that lead nowhere except back to the streets of this noble city.
I looked into me, but all I found was air. I looked into you, but all I found was still (more) air. It’s not true that empty vessels make the most noise.
I wish to inform you that I am breathing. I wish to inform you that tomorrow I shall remain breathing. I wish to inform you. I wish to inform. I wish to. I wish. Don’t stop breathing.