I imagine it’s some kind of a door. It doesn’t look much like a door, but from behind it I hear wails. A cliche comes to mind: the wails of souls in distress. I tell the others, we must move beyond this: if language is to mean anything at all, it must at least retain the capacity to generate something new. Or relatively new. I am refining this thought when Jun-So approaches me on folded elbows. He cannot speak (of course), but he reminds me that all of this, including his own collapsed body, has been foretold. He carries his punishment with him like a rose. Yet how can we manage with this door which is not a door? We need, of course, a sacrifice – a liminal being who will enable us to tread lightly, to leave no lasting imprint, having absorbed the footfall into his (no, I think it may be her) own body. It is hard to tell: I can see what is about to occur, but I cannot remember what it is that will have occurred. Here the future is neither perfect nor imperfect; and the past is, for all I know, continuous. But what would be the consequences of that?