Searching for the methmakers, I walked into a small hallway I had never been inside before, within which an exchange of materials between machine-nodes was taking place. Up into. Impossible to define the forms within. Something moving. A multiplicity of limbs without center, a tangle of tissue. There were sheets of paper tied with twine around the palms of the multitude of hands inside the cloud, each of which bore a symbol which stretched into movement, floating on its axes. The movement of the symbols modified adjectively the definition and usage of the symbol, which I understood instinctively as a series of warnings and curses. Drops of a purple fluid would occasionally fall from the cloud-body, caught in the thin carpet below, opening and closing like the mouths of piglets suckling at a sow's udder. The light grew polluted with the expanse of the cloud-being, stretching out over the dimming lamps, nearly invisible against the off-white of the ceiling. A spilling of relics came from the underside of the cloud; with my own eyes I saw the remains of Peter, preserved vine from the hanging tree, the skull bowl in which offerings to Lahita were placed. Was this a return of discarded relics, or was this a communication, an alphabet of worship and gnosis? Was this a means of making sense of the visions I had been having, placeholders in the real by which to hand this blurred intelligence, escaping phase-space? The ceiling swirled. Something was reaching toward me. Something pulled me back, away, out of the hallway before the cloud-being could enter my lungs, turn me into a mass of components for the creation of its idols.

the exit is hidden within the exit