as I step into this paradoxically tall place, a
security guard pleads with me, take off my shoes.
I am worried about the dirt, I said,
he is afraid I am dirt, he said.

nevertheless, following a series of negotiations,
he proceeds with me through a gate which somehow
magically establishes that I am not dirt, I am clean.
these thoughts remind me of a poignant disdain for
modern technology that I had on the supposed
airplane which brought me here, but I will allow
that thought to be expressed in a sequel or a
postscript.

as I enter this hollow shell, empty of utility
and reduced only to a mere image of images,
a rush of emotion suddenly strikes me.
suddenly I am a child again, glaring at
a girl who loved everything but me and
I realize now I can hardly be identified with
that child, because now I am staring at a girl
who loves nothing but me (and certain other
easily lovable necessities).

as I recognize I have known this place on at
least one prior occasion, I wonder what other
beauties in this world I have witnessed and
shrugged off as mundane. suddenly I am an
amateur writer again, looking up at a cathedral
in France, a place I love as much as any.

I do not forget my ever constant fear of jumping
towards my inevitable death as an elevator forces
me to ascend, ascend, up and up, I will be at the
top of the world soon, soon at the top of the known
world.

as a child, I was afraid neither of heights nor of the top of the world,
yet misery?
as a writer, I am afraid both of heights and of the top of the world,
yet joy.