“We were on a narrow corridor, when a staircase stretched into space, pushing the lateral to the margin, the margins of the indefinite. The stairs started climbing themselves under our feet, an abstract ascent, incomplete, and we skipped a few steps on the way. We were going to fetch something from the last floor of a block, a social house devoid of humans and drowned in the darkness. I said to her something very familiar, the usual tone of our conversation was filling the echoless room. She was leading the way, I, just like it always happens, was too immersed in the spacetime of my thoughts to maintain any sense of orientation, any coordinates of the map under my feet.

“We have trained thoroughly to understand the abstract pattern of the relation between a thing and the world it is in.”

The time of the ascent expanded, the duration of a step accommodated the length of the spoken sentence. A sentence that lurked there ghostly in the obscurity of the situation.

“But if we have two things, in two separate worlds, then we should be able to decipher the relation of the relation: between a thing and the world it is in, and another thing and the other world it is in.”

She was still leading the way to the last floor of a social house devoid of humans and drowned in the darkness.

On the last floor, near the door closest to our blurred sight, a man was standing, obliquely, dark on dark. We still wanted to reach the peak of the staircase convinced that a bit of philosophy guarded us from evil.

The man suddenly said in a firm voice, with a slight Eastern European accent: “You’d better not.”

The descent was so fast that the room disintegrated, we ceased to feel our body moving, our feet devouring the stairs, our leaps towards the escape, an escape that was itself on the run.

I was just a vague presence suspended at the margins of spacetime, waking up.”
rest @ http://plinth.us/issue04/popa.html