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I am alone now in a dark cellar. I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to say. There are only so many places I could be at once. Where I am I cannot say, but I am sure that you know; you must. I know we each have our own piece of it. I know that I cannot see it but I can touch it. We all have our slice; our slot; we all have the same constraint dictating our every gesture; our every move; dictating the when and the how and the who; how I have come to realize this in a dark cellar I do not know. It is hard to say if there are more than the two of us but that may be conceivably so. I can feel you on the wall, but if there are more of you, I do not know. I may conceivably wander off into the darkness of night. Or day. There is no way to tell. There are no windows. Or perhaps there are but I cannot see them because it is dark. If they are there (but I do not know if they are there (who exactly ‘they’ are is hard to say)), it must be shut, for I feel no breeze. What it is I do not know but I am certain that you do. You, little fly on the wall; you, witness to my confessions; you are dead; but your dead mass remains, so I will speak and you will listen. What harm is there in it? You would not listen, dead or alive. Would you? No. People are much like flies: they are dead and don’t know it. Whether you move or not has little to do with death, little fly. To exist and not to parish is death. I do not know now what I mean. It sounds true. Perhaps I have said something that is true. How rare that is. No matter. I wish to exhaust your company, fly. Your final day is over and now you will listen. Your death is no worse than mine in this cellar. I am afraid to move not in fear of death but in fear of losing your company. Retracing steps in an oval cellar, I may lose you. I may address you from across you, or beside you, or across you, but I need to feel you to know that you are there. What if, fly, you are not dead but tired. I will not submit nor buy into your trickery. You will fly away if I let you go so I must stay.