Prelude

Prelude.

You sit in the corner of a dark stone room. It is square and cold, fifteen foot along each wall and seven foot high. A strip light infrequently flickers from a central position, revealing snap shots of human bodies all in a frenzy, all lying on the floor; twenty five or thirty men and women in evening wear and bathrobes, caught in the sharp light, their positions grotesque, their movements spasmodic, all intoxicated on a private mania. The smell of fried steak and old curry fill your nose, and the moans of the mad and shrieks of the terrified rebound to your ears.

Here in the corner, on a solid plastic chair, you sit folding A4 pages of plain paper in perfect halves, filling a ledger as you go. Everything is taken into account, laid out line by line in this leather bound book. Its weight on your lap and your certainty of purpose gives the cool feeling of calm, feeding your fingers and arms like spring wine. Edge to edge the paper folds and the bodies disappear; the ledger is filled and the light becomes constant. The work complete, the room evaporates, you burn the paper and the wind blows.