The Researcher awakens in her dune cave, which felt to her as hollow as a tomb. It was a little before dawn.
Stacks of tapes had eaten up her living space, climbing up again and again, each of these spinning reels speaking of stories about that cottage with a blue roof.
She heard the voice of the Murdered Donkey Driver behind her: "I hear them all, the laughter and voices of generations past. Like dry leaves caught in the cracks of old walls, rustling only when the wind blows through. I wouldn't set foot in that house if I were you."
The Door-Side Beggar spoke too: "I sleep on the porch every night. Each morning, a dim light glows through the window. But no one ever leaves through that door ... and no one has ever entered."
Then the Bank Clerk's voice: "It's the story of the 'alter ego.' That house must've been filled with debts no one would return to claim."
The sick old lady, struggling in her bed, whispered: "The house remembers those days, when people vanished in the darkness of night and children were stolen by the storms."
The Paracausality Researcher had heard enough and drifted back to sleep again. There was only the rattling of the Die of Babylon echoing in her hollow cave.
In a deteriorating activity hall, thousands of floating slips of paper form a blurred, colossal face. It is hard to imagine how the prisoners managed to transform this place into what it is now.
García: I've always wanted to use the element of fantasy to better establish our theme. And I was right.
García: Now the stage is captivating, the timing is perfect, and the audience is ideally placed.
García: Only one imperfect element remains in the scene—the creator, who hasn't stepped away from his creation.
García: No, there's another thing.
García, the curator of the exhibition, stands beneath his work, deep in thought, agonizing over every minute imperfection.
His fellow poets whisper to one another.
Roberta: Can you even tell any difference between today's setup and yesterday's?
La Sociedad Member I: Seriously, Roberta? That's a rude question!
Roberta: Well, what's the difference, then?
La Sociedad Member I: Well, I can't see one either. But you should never judge art by how much it changes in a day! It's a creative process.
La Sociedad Member I: We might be standing at the edge of the world, but art has no boundaries! We have to show him our support.
Roberta: Easy for you to say. He's been tinkering and tweaking for over three months.
Roberta: Even if the Idealist himself entrusted him with this exhibition, he can still be wrong sometimes. This gallery is turning into a dump!
???: I'm seeing ghosts, all with the same faces, García. All too many. It's easy to get lost in them.
Having navigated through the labyrinth, the Idealist—the leader of La Sociedad—arrives at the exhibit's entrance, accompanied by several new faces and the jailer.
García: Idealist! You're back. Are these new recruits for La Sociedad? You must have had a very successful day!
The Idealist: It is good to see you, García. How has your vision progressed today?
Recoleta: First a salon, and now an art gallery? Is this really a prison?
Her shock is evident on her face, but her words are ignored as García begins to vent his frustrations.
García: As you can see, I've strived to push the element of fantasy in my work so that it might reach perfection.
García: But why doesn't it look like what I imagined?
García: It's like I'm trying to work on a shadow—some shapeless thing that morphs and shifts by the hour. Idealist, am I losing it again? I took my medicine as instructed.
The Idealist: It was never the pills that blinded you, my dear García.
The Idealist: You mustn't let tedious routine stifle what's truly alive. Remember, like those old poems, your exhibition must have a timeless rhythm that's never lost to the changing of minds.
García holds out his hands as if grasping something fleeting but fails to hold onto it.
García: Sorry, maybe I'm just not getting it.
The Idealist: Look up! There's your answer. Though the sun rises the same way every day, the multitudes of shadows it casts are ever-changing.
The Idealist: Isn't that the only constant in life—change?
The Idealist: We foolishly pursue stability and constancy, but our very world denies it. Take a step back—take several—and see the truth for yourself, lest you too become lost among the shifting shadows.
García: I get it now! It's the changing light that makes the exhibits seem different from what I expected.
García: I shouldn't waste my time on freezing things in one perfect moment. Instead, I need to embrace change as it comes.
García: I don't know how to thank you! I won't let you down. I must complete this exhibition.
García: Complete my "alter ego."
The choice of word widens the writer's eyes.
Recoleta: Did you say "alter ego"?
Recoleta: And he called you García. Is that your name?
Recoleta: García, where did you learn about this "alter ego"? Do you happen to write under the name—
But the curator has already returned to his work, uninterested or oblivious to his visitors.
The Idealist: Please, Recoleta! Give our artist some space. Can't you see? He's already returned to his own time and space. He can't hear a thing you say.
Roberta: He's right. García is deep in his own head now. He won't hear a thing until he's done with whatever he has to do.
Roberta: Even if the floor were to collapse out under us, I think he would be left standing in the air without even noticing.
Recoleta: Ah. Pardon me then.
She takes a step back out of respect.
The Idealist: Alright. My dear guests! Please forgive my late introduction. Welcome to the Gallery of Bewilderment.
Vertin: Thank you for inviting me here, Mr. Idealist.
The Foundation's investigators have been carefully observing each prisoner's movements since they arrived. But unfortunately, there is no sign of Ms. Dores.
The Idealist: I imagine you're curious about what we do here, in the heart of La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas.
The Idealist: We're putting together a magazine—a collection of poems from Comala, our very own Casa de las Américas.
Recoleta: Casa de las Américas?!
The Idealist nods with a smile.
The Idealist: Exactly. Named after its great predecessor! You're a fine mind indeed! At this very moment, all our companions are working on it.
The Idealist: García's exhibition, "Alter Ego," is centered around the birth of this magazine.
The Idealist: And here, you can see the signatures from all the poets involved, along with a few words they've written for it.
The Idealist: Reading it is like looking into the soul of our society.
Sonetto: All these signatures ...
Sonetto steps forward to examine the perplexing "artwork." In the dim lighting, the enormous face appears to be looming watchfully over the entire room.
A floating slip of paper catches her attention.
Sonetto: Timekeeper, here! It's Dr. Dores's pseudonym—Urd!
Vertin: Then she was here.
Sonetto pockets the slip of paper dutifully.
The Idealist: Precisely. She used to be one of us, and still is, if I may correct myself.
The Idealist: You can ask around here. Maybe some of our members know where she went.
The Idealist: Don't we all miss the familiar faces of old friends? I'm sure they'll do everything they can to help you find yours.
As he finishes speaking, several enthusiastic prisoners come forward to greet the Idealist.
La Sociedad Member II: Mr. Idealist, I've finished my short story. It's called "Weightlessness." It drifts around the subject like a sheep floating in space! The readers can start anywhere in the story or read it in any order they like!
La Sociedad Member III: And please take a look at my piece, "Off Limits!" Every word that has been forbidden is either erased or replaced with symbols. It's a one-of-a-kind jarring experience!
La Sociedad Member IV: And I've finished a new paragraph! Just wrote it today.
A prisoner, wrapped in several meters of manuscript paper, like a strange sort of mummy, squeezes into the crowd.
La Sociedad Member IV: Oh! New faces! Welcome!
Without any warning, he calmly tears the manuscript to shreds.
The fluttering fragments fall like trailing sparks from a fireworks show.
The abrupt "welcome ceremony" leaves the newcomers stunned, while the "natives" share knowing smiles.
Recoleta: Idealist! Did he just ...?
The Idealist: This is the writer for the prologue of our magazine.
The leader of La Sociedad, either misunderstanding or evading the question, responds with enthusiasm.
The Idealist: The prologue consists of a two-thousand-line poem and an introduction that is written in 86 languages to avoid misinterpretation. It represents every second we spend here.
The Idealist: Naturally, the arrival of new members disrupts its structure, and so we must begin again from scratch.
Recoleta: So he just tore it all up like that because he thought we were joining?
Recoleta: With all due respect, isn't this a little excessive? Heaven knows I'm not one to judge. I've torn up plenty of writing for my novel.
The Idealist: Please pay it no mind. It may not be an easy task, but he's doing his part.
The Idealist: Destruction is hard, but more necessary than you think. Without it, we'd all be stuck in a still and stagnant pond, with all the smells that entail.
Vertin: This all sounds very complicated. When will your magazine be finished then?
Vertin: Forgive me, but I'm not sure what a floating sheep, a jarring reading experience, and all this constant rewriting are meant to express.
The jailer, having remained silent, takes a deep breath and interrupts.
Jailer: As I've said, Comala is unlike any other prison.
Vertin: Ms. Jailer, do you mean ...
Jailer: This place also serves as a research center. And the prisoners here, for all they claim, are not just "poets."
Jailer: They are arcanist criminals, and each one of them has been diagnosed as mentally ill.
The leader of La Sociedad remains composed, like an island in a rough sea,
leaving the onlookers to question whether he is entirely mad or the sanest of them all.
The Idealist: You're quite right, Jailer. But let's not forget that mental illness is merely a deviation from the norm. And who decides the norm? You? The Physician? Or the ones outside these walls?
The Idealist: We've been exiled here by the standards of our time, deprived of our roles in the outside world. So please, as we agreed before, I ask you not to interfere with the affairs of La Sociedad!
Jailer: These people are visitors, not your new recruits.
The Idealist: But should we not hear their thoughts first?
The Idealist turns toward the visitors with an urgent plea.
The Idealist: My friends! No one escapes the Eye of Power. We must resist. Stand with us. Pick up your pen and take poetry as your shield before it is too late!
Recoleta: Idealist, I admire your fight. But I came here with a different goal.
The leader of La Sociedad, caught in his fervor, ignores her words and carries on.
The Idealist: "We're the last true owners of an old legend, words now only remembered as myth."
The Idealist: We must stay on the path of literature until I find that transcendental solution ...
The Idealist: To invent an idiom that is generic, all-encompassing, yet precise. My poem will be written in this language, leaving no room for doubt or misinterpretation!
The Idealist: How blessed is a man with infallible memory! He holds the finer details of each object within him, more vivid than anyone else. In the end, he'll have all the answers, if time allows him!
A dream-like expression crosses his face. It briefly seems as if he has become an entirely different person. But his vision is soon interrupted.
La Sociedad Member IV: Sweet tank! Sister ... howls! Hermaphrodite—Tango ...!
La Sociedad Member IV: They put the whole city ... in the nuthouse!
Sonetto: Timekeeper, look over there!
Vertin: Isn't that the prologue writer?!
Sonetto: There's something off about him. Please, Timekeeper, stay away from him!
The Idealist: What's happening?
Roberta: Idealist! Pablo is having another episode!
La Sociedad Member IV: Multiples of ... us! You make reality sick!
A flash of arcane energy flares up, and the jailer steps into the crowd reactively.
Jailer: I could use your help, ladies!
COMBAT
The frenzied prisoner is subdued. He lies convulsing in the center of the exhibit hall.
Roberta: Poor soul. I'll bring him to bed.
Roberta: Well done, ladies. Aren't you full of surprises!
Jailer: What was all that?
Vertin: It seems he had a mental breakdown and lost control of his arcane skill. It appears that every line he recited carried unbridled power.
Sonetto: Usually, only specific lines can channel arcane energy. You can't just force the power into words or craft a poem to serve your purpose.
Sonetto: Pablo must have a rare gift for identifying empowered lines. When he recited them all aloud, they overwhelmed him.
Roberta: That's right. He's a genius who rides the tides of emotion, just like Arthur Rimbaud.
Roberta: We always keep a close eye on him to make sure he doesn't recite anything while reading or writing.
Roberta trades glances between the tense jailer and her visitors.
Roberta: But, sometimes, things slip through.
The Idealist: You must understand how difficult it is for a poet to never taste the words on his own lips.
Jailer: So, then this isn't the first time. And you're all fully aware of it.
Jailer: Do I understand you right? Did you just admit that you've been hiding an inmate with a dangerous condition from us?
Jailer: According to the Safety Regulations for the Panopticon of Comala, he must be sent to the Physician for immediate treatment.
The jailer's command causes a dramatic shift in the room.
Roberta: No, no! Wait, we can explain!
Roberta: He's doing fine! We know how to help him. This was just an accident. We-We got distracted by the new members.
The Idealist: We won't be handing him over to the Physician.
The Idealist: No true writer would allow their mind—the most sacred palace of their thoughts—to be opened up to that cold-hearted, ignorant butcher. Even one who believes their inspiration flows from a source beyond the mere substance of a brain would refuse it!
Jailer: ...
The jailer furrows her brows and pulls out her weapon. The air tightens into an invisible thread.