I walked down to the annex, where a den of methmakers were in communication with the ghosts of Campbell's Raiders, a Civil War militia gang made up of Kentucky moonshiners, who were trying to explain moonshine voodoo to the 508 Speed Kings, in from the trailer courts all washed away into the river, processing ephedrine in closet labs, kids who pay little attention to Asa Sult's stories of the still spirits, of burying the still with the mojo, of Union officers driven mad on contaminated meat shipped down the Ohio River packed in alchemist's salts sending their troops into battles against the forest and the sky. History mandates that none who need hear will listen, shotguns under the fold-up beds and rewired surveillance camera footage on the coin-operated television. The cops used to flush the annex once a month; now they just drive by and pop rounds through the blanketed windows. Vons Serin nailed the doors to the annex shut long ago; I generally stayed far away from the annex, but I needed information the way children need sugar.

Water-stains across the ceiling show directions, directions down. In the tunnels below I have met the sewage priest who hunts the worm in the womb of the world, I have met children stealing wire from the walls, spiraling spheres painted on the walls in mercuric sulfides, lead carbonates and anhydrous chromium oxides, the shapes slipping into a fourth and fifth dimension as the chemicals penetrate the pores. This is the endless hallway. This is bardoland. I am searching for an escape from objective codified time, which is to say an escape from rebirth in space-time, a falling into the light. I must be careful. Temptation walks the same bejeweled path as the ro-langs in the access closets. Involution. Entering the spiral rebus.

the exit is hidden within the exit