Writing

How long would the corridor need to be? How wide? What shape would it take? And orientation, were points of the compass important? A Northerly direction? North of North-East? That was always a favourite of mine. Would it be light or dark? Constant or diffuse? Would there be colours? Like Oz, would you move from black and white to colour. Would that be triggered by crossing the memory threshold, when the recall machine would shift into a forgetting machine. And the scale? Were we building awmonument to forgetting or to forget in?

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I began with the idea of a journey.
But a journey with no origin or destination. A journey that was a constant state of flux.
I began with stairs and lifts.
Always travelling on stairs and lifts. Never arriving on stairs and lifts.
I began with a middle.
I stopped travelling and started moving, gesturing. Sometimes large and energetic, sometimes small and precise.
Often I was joined by other identicals.
We had no beginning or end. We were middle only.

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