—Are you K? she asked.

I nodded.

—We've been waiting for you, she said. Wait right here for just a second. I'll be back soon.

A minute later she returned carrying something in both hands—it looked like a crate, except it was different, I couldn't see but it was different, and wiggly.

She handed me an octopus.

It latched onto my face; it latched around my arms; there were tentacles everywhere; it was gross, and had a funny smell; and heavy too; and when it moved it made a low, wet sound, like someone dragging their foot along the beach, when the sand was damp; and its eye faced the other direction, in front of me, but even though it could see, I couldn't, because there was tentacle in the way, and body.

—Alright, she said, be careful.

—What the fuck?

—I'm sure you've probably noticed, she continued, but there are walls everywhere here. There's a good chance you'll run into one of them, since, no matter where you go, unless you leave, one of them will be in front of you.

—Isn’t there anyone else to give this to? Anywhere?

—You'll know where to take it, she said, but if you forget, get there, and then ask someone.

—Hello, she said. Do I know you?

—I think we live on the same street. Probably.

—I saw you one day, she said, with your flamethrower. You looked tired.

—That was an unpleasant time in my life. I'm trying to forget it.

—Oh, she said. I understand.

I slid down from the chair. My feet remembered the ground. Her strings vibrated, a choir, all together, with a single conductor. Her song was beautifully wordless. It could only be felt, not understood. Like other things—simultaneity, unity of properties, timeless.

I wanted to talk to her some more, but her eyes closed again. I don't think she could hear me over the music—but as I left, I thought I felt her speaking into my ear, almost like she was using her voice.

I returned to the antechamber. At the base of the statue, a line of small children, wearing robes, hands tucked behind their backs, sang.

Considering the multiple exits, I took the first. Its ceiling, unlike the others, stood at proper angles; the floor, congruent to itself, was all white tile. Sterility infected the walls. A mass of janitors cleaned them, scrubbing with long cottony brushes. Just like before, all the light came from a continuous strip along the ceiling.

I passed a short person, wearing glasses, and a tall person, wearing glasses. I went by a person carrying a suitcase, wearing glasses. In one of the rooms, through glasses, people stared into a big TV. In the glass, images transmogrified to resemble thought-patterns. Some occupants drooled. One was sucking his thumb. Another, off in the corner, was eating a hamburger.

An older man in a suit, hair slicked back so I could still see the grease, came to the door. The lenses magnified his eyes. He straightened his collar. His nose was oily.

—Hello, he said. Would you like to join us?

—Not really.

—Are you sure you won't stay? he asked. We have pizza every Friday, and we eat syrup in the morning.

—I can't. I'm going somewhere.

—Come inside, just for moment. I'll introduce you to everyone.

—I'll stay here.

—That (he pointed), is Rudolph. He likes birthday parties. The girl sitting beside him is named Angela; she's our newest member. The one with red hair (picking his nose), is Sylvester—our tech guy. My job is to wear a suit and slick back my hair in order to look professional. I teach people things, if they're willing to learn.

I wasn't.

All along the walls, in gravitational clusters, papers stuck tacked together. The hall smelled of antiseptic. No one talked. Instead, like insects that had been stepped on, they curled, clasping their knees, laughed, cried. Impossible lights gleamed in their eyes.

—Have you been here before? one asked.

—Never. I need to get out.

—We have our fun. Except for the bad days. Sometimes they bring us pictures of coral fish or asparagus. I ate a mastodon whole. The tusks got stuck in my stomach, and now I need to have surgery, because my insides bleed. It's impossible to feel the butterflies. I'm stuck in a cocoon but I can't break out, I'm stuck in a cocoon but I'm not a butterfly. There must be something better than that.

—Do you know the way out?

—There's a door with the sky in it. When you open it, you can see the sky for real. That's how you'll know you're outside.

—Thanks, I said. Before I go, do you need anything?

—You could untie me.

—There's no rope.

—It's just invisible. If you look hard enough, you'll find it—I warn you though, letting me out might be a really big mistake.

—I'll do it if you want me to. Should I?

—I might never come back.

—That's alright with me, if you want to go.

I untied him and he ran away. He had really curly red hair. Every few steps he would reach down to grab his feet. Once he fell, and nearly caught himself. But not quite.

At the end of the corridor, I found a door. I opened it, and an image of the sky flooded my mind. The ground was a plane of concrete, like a parking lot, except with no marks on it. It extended not quite to the horizon, but nearly. Tall fences surrounded the perimeter.

A small garage crouched nearby. Time had peeled the color from its sides.

On the roof: a sundial, marking time, cast a shadow.

Around the other side, I met a little kid bouncing a ball. Snot leaked out of his nose. The red ball he clutched—proverbial, an icon. He made me sad, for some reason. Possibly because he was crying.

Next to him was a bright orange car; beneath it, a painting, about ten feet wide; on top of that, holding two paintbrushes, kneeling down, an attractive woman with her dark hair tied back. She flung paint. It made streaks, forming lines and waves: burgundy wings upon the canopy of a forest; hanging flowers, burning rain.

—Hello, she said. Have you come to see my masterpiece?

—I suppose.

—Isn't it magnificent? And aren't I, for painting it?

—Sure, okay.

—Tell me, she said, what do you see?

I never responded. I wonder if she noticed.

She cocked her hip. Her boots were really tall, with pointy heels. I felt almost like she was going to attack me. She had the fullest lips I've seen.

—Are you free? she asked. I have something to tell you.

—Alright.

—Look over there (she gestured to the horizon, somewhat resembling her picture; all movement, in gusts). Do you see my husband?

—Um.

—He's so far away! she cried. Beyond reach, passing out of memory!

—Is that him? I asked.

A few miles away, someone was flying one of those old style planes. It had spinning propellers on the front, and an open cockpit—except it was tied, by string, to the ground. A big banner trailed from the back of the plane. It read “SOS” in attention catching letters.

—He's left me, she wailed, for the sky, to go on a great journey!

—I'm sorry.

—Don't worry (she fixed her posture, straightened her hair), I'm alright.

—Oh, I said. That's good.

—Would you like to get in the car? she asked. There's enough room in there for two.

—Isn't that your son, right there?

—No, she said. I'm not really sure what he's doing here. It has nothing to do with me.

—Alright, I said. I don't believe you but alright.

She got really close—her breasts jutted my face—dragged me by the wrist, opened the door, and threw me in so hard I hit my head on the other side.

She was all boob.

They were heavy, like planets. When she kissed me, I thought she was going to swallow my face; her fingernails made my neck bleed. Whenever I moved, she would put her hands on my shoulders and push so hard I became part of the chair. She hit me with a hammer, except the hammer was her body. She ran her hands across her chests and thighs. She put her head back. She screamed. She was a quaking tower with gigantic breasts, flinging the earth: goddess of the volcano, exonerating plasticized vision. The lightning ran across her, cast a cloak about her shoulders; the thunder shook. I was reminded of the earth. Pieces of the sky fell, casting columnar plumes into the air, dust and soot, generations of ash: a heat more unforgiving than any summer. Her core shook, like an earthquake. Nothing could be salvaged, no nothing could be salvaged, she laid buildings and cities and waste, removed the leaves from the trees, shook entire continents. Pulsating strongly, a shift. For miles, people dodged collapsing houses. Her energy was of the earth, in it, outside it. To some extent, she shared that with me, but rather than becoming, I partook, seeming to observe from an impossible distance, the collapsing horizon, its rupturing space....

Sometimes I wonder if "sex" is the right word for what we did. It was only partially sexual, but ultimately geographic; visceral in the sense that being shot with a cannon is visceral. When we finished, I wasn't sure, but I thought I might have experienced what it felt like to get raped.