Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one. Vast enough for search to be in vain. Narrow enough for flight to be in vain. Inside a flattened cylinder fifty metres round and eighteen high for the sake of harmony.
The light. Its dimness. Its yellowness. Its omnipresence as though every separate square centimetre were agleam of the some eighty thousand of total surface. Its restlessness at long invervals suddently stilled like panting at the last. Then all go dead still. It is perhaps the end of their abode. A few seconds and all begins again.
Consequences of this light for the searching eye. Consequences for the eye which having ceased to search is fastened to the ground or raised to the distant ceiling where none can be.
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