as in, a borgesian term of imprisonment in which you come to learn that stasis is an illusion. you attune and collect evidence. long shadows swing from the room’s sharpened edges, contracting and rotating with each passage of the sun, cumulatively tilting toward the next season. the cyclical heating and cooling of the concrete inscribes what you eventually recognize as an insistent rhythm onto your skin. it feels as though you’re preparing yourself to haunt the place. the first visitation comes in winter. sound bubbles from a crack in the wall, a conversation you can’t follow and hardened repeating codes that splash off the walls like rain. it had to be, and you’re looking away.