In a medieval building thick with stale air, there is a wrought-iron staircase that descends into a brick-lined wine cellar. The aged casks are there still, but lie empty.
If one should press on a certain cask along the wall in a certain way, a doorway opens into a small meeting room. In it, a lectern stands at one end and a few benches sit, as if ready for use.
As I made a record of this room on paper and with flash camera, an apparition appeared that began to pull my mind apart, synapse by synapse.
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