Looking up, how many times did they get it wrong?
It must be hard. Or they were extremely lucky. Maybe environmental circumstance dictates it's something seen but never reached.
An uncracked code. Oceanless, fruitless, seedless, pillarless. Deep but dimensionless, momentless, futureless. An outward appearance - an empty shell.
And here, boxed in - room after room after room, from the city streets, windowed and staring in, the binding strings of media in three dimensions.
I close my eyes early in the day and wake at midnight. No light in my room, but somehow, in the dark, I know where I am. Feel my way out of bed, feel for the lightswitch. A powercut. Walk the rooms, open doors, take the stairs to the junction box, flip the switches, and realize that somehow I navigated in pitch black.
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