From the false Chamber I fall, although falling implies a purpose or direction to my trajectory which is absent. I enter a world of painful colours and twisted shapes to whose extensions my eyes or perhaps my mind are incapable. I fall, drift or spiral through a nacreous place. Maybe it is literally a vast and convoluted shell, and I am tumbling towards the mouthparts of whatever crab lives within. Maybe I am grit, being expelled into an ocean as strange as this tiny curve, or maybe the curve is infinite and I will live like this for ever. I shall not grow old or die, but I shall grow mad until the distinction between what I am and what is out there is moot. Maybe. But it seems not: in the end I come into a library, and I smell burning books.