1. This is the end point. I followed telephone poles to get here. I walked through the fields of transformer hum and showers of voice fragments that spilled from overhead wires.
The voice fragments sang to me. They drew me onward. Sometimes I imagined them conversations between distant people. It didn’t matter what they said.
Every telephone pole has a number. Somewhere there is a map.
2. The end point is a crater filled with water. Abandoned heavy machinery rusts in the sun amidst networks of shallow gullies.
The end of the telephone line is a collection of circles and spirals scattered across the mud.
Beyond there are two or three more poles. Then nothing. No more numbers.
But you already know this.
3. The fields of sine waves and faint showers of voice fragments they tumble and bend should stop here. But they don’t. I hear fragments floating in the air, luring me onward.
I sit among the final masts writing to you who find this.
When I leave, there will be no place to tie myself.
4. A map puts a route into a somewhere.
Imaginary map inside an imaginary map, these sentences are all that’s real.
But you already know that too.
