This tript of solid features in durrs of its bleaf met us wandering the night. If across many waits. In gin sick bottle-scrummed full-bearing weighty weights of hot. Sacrilege in how the dewy pumpkin rolled downhill to the doorstep your little cottage dreamhome. Opening your door at hearing its thump thinking mmm it is time for some pie. How many doggereled ventilation shafts do you spies have to slide through in The Building of A Thousand Names? Where wet work became the dry mouth of an ingress leet show. A bunch of hory lessigens seeping into cole-words. Speaking like miners of African crystal. From a news-stereo occupation in Tibet. This is the business there is no news. There is a whine high and whiny coming from the Outside no one knows the source of; no one goes. The spies begin self-spying—not only among themselves, but of their actual selves. The paranoid Swiss maple-colored lips of that double-triple one in her ventilation-ruined spandex stealthsuit mouthing “Oh. No.” A mix-headed feeling running through her thoughts which manifest in spurts at inconvenient times. While talking down the barman; while trying to survey the Lozzet Lounge abustle a party; while nooking the Receiver into the tampon disposal bin; while igniting her car’s engine to leave before deciding not to leave; while walking back in the parking garage detecting stalkery sounds; while innovating truces with those she suspects are enemy spies; while hundred-heading her emotional register and mad-mapping awayback on the premise it’s going to be all right. There are covert espionages going on at the Mega-Blinked Pent House Apartment 223 on the side. On the balcony, Ruffo notes how the fog covers the lower city and still no detection of the source of the sound. Trembly No-Wun is heckling the off-duty comedian at the couch area, who’s making people laugh at various levels of sincerity. Inadvertently helping the comedian to make them laugh. The slushy shush of newwwwwwwww slithers all around at all times in all places in the building. It’s especially perceptible in the silence. So the Rug Vane at the heart of all this is amiss and Twist Hardly is the new sentiment. For what is off for how to fix what is wrong with what is off. Section Drones scour the pitch-black basement with thermal cameras and find only boxes and leaky pipes. And a mouse trying to catch its stubby tail. All the rooms are bugged except the bugging room, which is occupied by sentient AI who feel no fear and do not like themselves. Crumbling away the soul starts to michigan. The face distorts in the faces of others; it distorts in the face of fear. The synaptic nothing ruse flapping itself wideways sidelong into an exy fish bowl won’t truthify the situation. The way-way wasn’t meant to be found they don’t think. They are eponymous. This shrinking of my hand inside my pocket around a Lucky Lozenge disturbs readily. The aces a bank. The nordritch entities. The suffering celluloid stuck inside a grate. Which would answer the questions of everyone here, except the robots. The robots have fewer questions than directives. The directives are jumbled in Nordic-looking code. When explained to the government-forgotten programmer whose goal it is to find a bed to sleep in, he just says the word “semantics” and goes on his way. It makes no sense. There are heavenlies. Whole droves of off-looking cars on off-looking roads in movies whose lighting feels always off. There are kits to repairing relationships adjudicators have locked away in MGMT closets. There are bleak spiritual energies to the thousand-dollar light bulbs on East Wing where the Swiss spy again thinks with thoughts that bother her. The ocean of nothing the non-fearing Godly eye. How did we end up here if we just came through that previous door? Directions to change for the better are written in hieroglyphics nobody understands. Everyone is motional. Even while still. Everyone is freed. They are like tokens of witness to being enslaved to their own freedoms. They are not; they are like blank paper. The words are there, you just don’t know what they say. There is a reason we have brought you to the room labeled “Ending Room.” The officer who is likely getting paid too much palms his holstered glock and steps to the side. Cool it with the attitude, froyo-face. That is what the officer says when the Boss enters behind. Closes the door. Looks you in the eyes. “Do you know why you’re here?” I’m waiting. “Do you know why you live and breathe and occupy?” There is a ruse here again. Of course. There’s always a ruse. Some damn reason. Some damn plot to set up or take down or avoid. “Do you know… we could totally silence this whole thing. This whole thing—all of it—if we wanted to. But do you know what we’re going to let you do?” What? “We’re going to let you go. We’re going to let you live. You can live, inside.” Bulk of the explication involved not looking up only looking down at the widgets of factoid renum that burrows at your feet and inks the tiles in a coppery glyphness and disperses. Spelling out rules spelling out circumventions spelling out rhymes. “For your life, you will give us only one thing. Do you know what that is?” I come to understand more and more the more and more I’m here that there’s nothing really I can say to affect any change in the atoms of my life. “Why? You should know. You all should know. Everything.” It doesn’t make sense but it doesn’t take time. “There are so few reasons. You all should know why.” The officer unsheathes his glock and pops himself in the head. Out of nowhere, the floor falls out and it’s black and you die. The Boss in the room laughs like a cartoon villain. You can hear him from your soul’s perspective as you ascend back and then leave up through the ceiling and why. There are no more entrances from here. There is only the vast vast vast outside. There is only this there is no more time. Wait for me, won’t you?