One night, over a few bottles of unspeakably bad gin, she confirmed my long-held suspicion that at the very center of magnetic south there is a metal loop, which once held a string leading up into the firmament, at the end of which, at the bottom of the universe, the first child in space commandeered our orbits and revolutions with the slightest movements of the wrist. I wonder as to this child's fate: was it to end as those children from India, who tied balloons to their hands and floated along the lower level of the atmosphere, forbidden to be shot down for fear of injury, terrified they shall never return to the earth? Was it to end as artificial skeletons, rocs and griffins broken and buried behind the institution? Or did that child just let go one day, tiring of the spin and whirl of our day-to-days? And is this why everything seems to strange and unbalanced now? Or is it just us?

the exit is hidden within the exit