An unread book on a desk

There was nothing. At least, there was not this.

Then there was a message in the mail or an image on a wall or a whisper in our ear awakening us from a deep slumber and providing a direction, something to do. It seemed to reach out from nowhere, possibility born from nothingness, a nonexistence bestowing existence upon itself. It was merely there from an elsewhere of which we know not. And it does not matter how. It does not matter why. It does not matter. It is there and nothing more. What matters is what is to be done next.

Next. Next. Always next. Until one day arrives when there is no next. Without warning, it may cease. The last message. The last image. The last phrase. The last whatever. Back to nothing: no next, no change, endless monotony. For now, at least, there is something and we may, if we like, take a certain degree of pleasure in that. And we may look forward with some hope, a yearning perhaps, to what might be next. And as long as the words continue to arrive, there will continue to be a next.

Where do these words and images come from? Perhaps from the same place in which one finds a man who does not exist. And then we are at the heart of a mystery.

The latch string is always out,

{ } VK Arkiv