Saturday, August 8, 1970

Fig. 002

A passage written on the cell walls of an unknown prisoner approximately 4578793 minutes before he died:

Aha! The staircase! It is actually empty! Oh, by the way, did I tell you I miss you? I do. There are no men in here at all. It's completely fucking empty. I was tricked. But I heard them! I know that I did. With their guns and their elephant machines and their horns they did make such a ruckus. It was beautiful. It is not here. Oh, but here is the real issue: you, too, are not here. What is this? Since when have you been able to force away the great stirrings that a volcano will evoke in you. We traveled these together for such a long time, waiting for the burn. This was our alcohol. Our ether. Some used ointments, but we used fire. Melt away the old, make way for the new. A simple concept. Yet now I sit here in empty staircase, next to an empty chair, and in front of an empty chamber where no musician plays and no animal roars. I dare you to explain it. But you could not. You are not here. I miss you.