A cartographer's hall at night. On the table lies a live map of the hall, and because the map is in the hall, it contains itself: a table, a map, a smaller table, a smaller map. You are the red mark. The dark blot is not you. Read the cartographer's notes, and check the east wall.
An endless stack of hexagonal galleries, after Borges. Every book on every shelf can be taken down and read: 410 pages of letters that almost never mean anything. Lean over the railing into the air shaft, climb the spiral stair, look into the hallway mirror. Somewhere there is a sentence meant for you.