YOU FOUND IT · THE DEEPEST POINT
The room behind the door is round. Stone walls. The same faint warm light, sourceless — the light does not come from anything you can see. It simply exists in the air.
The walls are covered, floor to ceiling, in the same script. But here you can read it. You don't know how. You simply can. Every name of every person who has ever stood in this room is written here. The list is very long. It does not begin.
In the centre of the room: a small table. On the table: a notebook, open to a blank page. A pen beside it. The pen is uncapped.
There is no other exit.
— WRITTEN ON THE WALL IN YOUR OWN HAND —
YOU WERE ALWAYS HERE.
the corridor was not a place you found. it is a place you came from.
"I sat at the table for a long time. The notebook was blank. The pen was ready. Eventually I understood what was expected. I wrote. I wrote everything I had observed — all of it, from the beginning, from the spring of 2019 when I sat in a hallway between two lectures and noticed that the space I occupied had a grammar of its own. I wrote until I ran out of pages. When I looked up, the notebook was blank again. I began to write again. I am still writing. I think I will be writing for a long time. I think that is the point. I think the writing is the corridor and the corridor is the writing and both of them are —" — C. Jiang [note ends]