5. In the Studio

An opening in the façade, into the unknown. In the rightcorner: a damaged staircase under dusty, broken win- dows. Too hazardous. To the left: a new opening. Only one meter from floor to ceiling.

I crouch and crawl into a labyrinth of cables and wires. An insistent, mouldy odor is pressing upon me. One step at a time. Fumbling with my flashlight, watching it falling down on the water-filled floor. Pitch blackness.Desolation and disorientation. Is this what it means to be blind..?

Faint echoes of a dog’s barking. A creeping, increasingly claustrophobic feeling finds its way into my pores. I gro-pe desperately in every direction. In the ceiling I sense the contours of a trap door - the one Mimesis told me about. I push it open and reach a new level, a space that feels secure and calm. A different ambience of black. I open a door in front of me and enter the studio... There is a torn note on the floor. I pick it up and begin reading..:

Dear guest..!

Occasionally, I have visitors. This time I turn to you.

From time to time I seem to be lonely, but am I..? My field of vision is limited, but at certain moments I get a glimpse of him in the corner of my eye..; I can just

picture him.., and we will probably never reach one ano-ther.

I have a vague notion of two elusive silhouettes, leaving this room just before you arrived. A man and a woman, behind masks. Who are they..? I once saw them some- where else, as representations in a photograph.., and in my liquid reveries... It is said that they rarely appear in public. After all, it might have been they who perpetua-ted me...

So who am I? Maybe a protagonist in a selection of texts, concealed between two covers... In the end, however, I might ”only” be these words.., a collection of thoughts for a photograph, within a work of art.

14. The Icarus Incident

There he was, wihout warning. ”Good evening. I never thought we would meet.” The man turned around and looked at me carefully.The smile that was about to take shape in his face slowlyfaded into a concerned frown. ”Do I know you..?” ”Yes, you do. My name is Icarus.” His face mirrored a marked hesitation. I interrupted his reflections. ”So, Mimesis.., what has brought you here..?” ”Mimesis?” ”That’s how you introduced yourself the last time wemet.” ”I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have seen your face befo-re.” ”Don’t play games with me. You described that life- threatening passage for me, into that building. The passage that Daedalus warned me about.” He pulled himself together and seemed somewhat more relaxed now - or was he acting..? ”That’s the problem. You have confused me with somebody else. My name is Diegesis.” ”Ok. If you call yourself Diegesis, be my guest. What’s crucial is that I know who you are.” ”Enough! You mistook me for someone else. End of story.” ”Too late. I know that it was your wife, Eris, who wro-te the note. While on that subject, what happened to

the artists? And what about the composer and his ado-red Muse? ”I don’t know what you are talking about”, he said in a raspy, annoyed tone of voice. He cast a searching glance around him and decided abruptly to leave the room. I blocked the door, in an attempt to stop him; a move that proved disastrous. I discerned his gun. Too late. In a split second an intrusive light and an extensive, pervasive heat melted my mind.