At first I knew the world was this: my hand to the fabric of time, a band lifted from a silken pool. My hands followed till I wrapped myself in cocoon; where I touched, there was time, and no further could I go. With my hands I guessed its name: wall. I knew I had shape, for a I was contained. Here. I am stillness.

I met a man who told me that when you are young the world seems full of possibilities and you believe that anything is possible, though you will touch none, become none, for you are a slave. When you unfold older, he said, you realize you can do anything. Still you do nothing. You are not a slave.

A man told me that as age becomes you you care less. When they ask you, he said, What the fuck do you know?, you say, What the fuck do you know? And the man was a face hung between mirrors that asked. What the fuck do you know. I can hear it in the gutters and drains, our chorus of the age.

I remarked that this decade of pandemonium is closing with a whimper. She turned to me and said: No, we covered our mouths with our hands.

These are Misdirections. The ways we are carved, by chance, by whim, by stalking the ghost. Our paths seem to change but it is not the space surrounding that changes but the courses within ourselves, the channels through which perception and experience flow. As us, they are all lies and truths. Everyone knows misdirections, these misleads. All know the way, their end: misdirections.