A stone
This is a placeholder text. Writing for different beings in different dimensions functions on a level with multiple perspectives, and some locations have yet to share their story with me. It will be about the beauty of this—in reality, not-so-beautiful—box. Or about how blue it is. Or how square. Maybe it will be a fountain. Maybe you’ll have to place your hand in it. Maybe not. We’ll see. Or I’ll tell you who sat on it last? A box for everyone. Everyone at the same time. Is it art or merely decorative? You’ll have to decide. Or I’ll say you should pick up a stone. For the box has transformed into a different one since my last visit, through this journey with you.
I know about these stones, we need one of them. They always materialize on my travels. This is the way I learned to travel, it’s how I always do it (and no journey has gone wrong yet): you, traveller, have to choose a stone for our way, which will also be the way back. Exactly one stone. Exactly your stone.
Any stone—but it will be yours. Now search with your eyes and your hands. But beware, there’s broken glass here.
Have you found the stone? Picked it up now? Have a look at it—the way it lies in the palm of your hand. Take a sniff.
Now clench your hand into a fist around the stone. Hold it tightly or put it in the pocket of your pants, shirt, jacket or skirt.
A text has written itself after all, the placeholder has become a place-taker. And you presumably even did that which was laid out only within its realm of possibilities. Tilt your nose to the sky, take a deep breath and follow the protocol on page 31.