If it is true, as has been long suspected by Serin and her astronomically addicted subjects, that there is such a thing as the inland island, the space demarked not by ocean but by conscious will, then the maps that have been made of the subearth tunnel-hive in which the lost and found girls sift mineral and chemical from the church drainage system cannot be understood by passage and wall, but by location of fluid-strata: these are treasure maps. Private ritual may be understood as penance, as retroactive revision of memory-loci, as finding a form for dream. None of those theories are applicable, here, in the tunnels. There were discarded speaking-tubes wired into the tunnel, and the echoes of the chatter of minor demons, thick with demands and disease-breedings, crept into our dreams, hung from bunk-nets wired to steam-pipes which kept us warm and droned out stray thoughts. We all ache, in our bones, for weightlessness.

the exit is hidden within the exit