Field Notes from Nowhere

Arrived via the usual route. The western wing extends for what the architect's drawings indicate should be 38 metres. I have been walking for, by my phone's clock, forty-seven minutes. The corridor appears identical at all points: the same scuff mark on the third tile, repeating at regular intervals. I have counted eleven iterations of this scuff.

The light does not change. My phone shows full battery. The time has not advanced since the last entry.

No June 31 exists. I wrote that date when I arrived and have not been able to correct it. The pen writes that date regardless of what I intend.

The library below ground contains books I recognise. I recognise them because they are books I have not yet written. One is titled "The Last Index" and appears complete, including the index of non-existent books I had planned to write as a thought experiment but had not begun. It is finished. It is well-written. I do not remember writing it.

I did not take the book. I was afraid of what reading it would do to the act of writing it.

A transit corridor. Entirely ordinary in appearance. I was not investigating anything. I was taking a train.

I noticed that the person walking ahead of me had my gait. Exactly my gait — the specific asymmetry in my stride that a physiotherapist identified in 2017. I sped up. The distance between us did not change. I stopped. They stopped.

I turned around. When I reached the platform, the departure board showed a train that had arrived three years ago, departing now.

I took it. It arrived on time.

I am writing this entry in advance. I will write it exactly as it will happen, because I have been in this corridor long enough to know how it ends.

I will walk to the end. The end will be a door. the door will be open. i will not come back through it. i will not need to. The door will be unlocked. I will open it.

Everything will be fine.