The library. False to claim eternal depths; in truth just large enough to get properly lost inside. The gopi out sun-dancing on the grazing plains think little of the endless classification systems and incomplete taxonomies I have devised to give the materials some semblance of form. “You are a bowl that holds no water!” they laugh. “What kind of bowl is that?” The gopi are hooked on desiring machines, strung out on the broadcast of theta waves. They barely notice me at all, happy to weave their hair together in narratives, each braid a character. Follow the astral tethers, bound round their bodies, sticky ectoplasmic ribbons tucked into and over the folds and curves, colors pulsing along the chakras. The sun continues its descent, the hills swallowing the light, the feeling of falling within me only barely abated by watching them through the window, fading into the Purkinje effect, before I return to typing her entries.

the exit is hidden within the exit