Four rooms, one corridor. In the first room, everyone is talking at once and somehow this is the kindest thing. In the second room, people sit equidistant from a point no one names. The point holds. In the third room, a sound that is not yet a voice announces itself the way weather does— you feel it in the architecture before you hear it in the air. In the fourth room, paper. The way paper can mean the rest of your life if you hold it at the right angle to the light. Between the rooms: walking. Nine thousand twelve attempts to stay inside a body that keeps wanting to become several bodies at once— the one who works, the one who hopes, the one who signs, the one who heard that sound and has not yet returned from it.