"Where am I?" I ask.

"In the Realm of Lack of Answers," they reply, with a single voice. Not as if consensus gave it more power, but as if there could be nothing individual in what they said. As if they could only be The Voice.

"That's good," I say. "A premature conclusion has no meaning. I will feel at home here."

They smile among themselves. Suddenly I realise that they don't know what home means. I want to explain it to them, but they put a finger to their lips and gently lead me away. They are unassertive, and even as a collective assembly I see that there is no reason to fear them, for I could tear myself away as easily as one might part the ends of straw in a stubble field.

Reaching the grotto, they try to shackle me to a rock. But while the fetters might have commanded respect had they been finished, I quickly see that half of the links in their chains have yet to be hammered together. Simply by shaking my arms, I know they would fall from me like a handful of coins. Now I feel angry that they want to mistreat me, since I have done nothing wrong. But I cannot give way to my anger, because already I pity them their weakness, their insubstantiality, the vainglory of this childish attempt to bind me here.

"You must stay here now," they say.

"Why must I stay here?"

"You must stay here," they repeat gently, as if abiding by the terms of some contract.

"How will you ever constrain me like this?" I mock them, as, with every seriousness, they wind the chains about me, and padlock them to the rock.

"Easily," they reply as one voice. "You don't know that the fetters have never been finished. You don't even know if you are a prisoner here. In this realm, you know nothing at all."