The walls, which resembled mute faces, have finally come to an end. See, there is the centre towering up in the middle of the house, and there all the walls that border on to it have been torn down in a wide circle for the sake of fortification.

This is the centre. The sight of it is always enough to make anyone who comes through the corridor pause.

Stillness everywhere. Only a slight slithering sound like a snake: the van is gliding towards him. The arrow polisher cringes from old habit. Then he realizes that he has nothing to be afraid of. The van steers past. Not a living soul to be seen inside it; they are all well hidden. It is on its way in but no sound emerges from it. A guard is standing behind a glass partition, controlling the entrance door of glittering steel which swings open further along the wall.

‘This way,’ says the official, and walks on. This is not the right entrance for the arrow polisher. They walk in another direction. The centre towers up before them. Everything here is solid. And this is where I belong, thinks the arrow polisher. Surely they must be the stronger after all? Look at this. Power seems to pour into him merely at the sight of it. How impressive it is, and he is at home here. How far in will I come? he wonders with a slight shiver.

His guide has now reached the entrance for people like himself. No guard to be seen, but there probably is one. And the entrance itself is the same: nothing to be seen, but when the official goes towards the masonry an entrance opens immediately. But only for one at a time, it is so narrow.

The arrow polisher cannot help pausing for a moment.

So that’s where it is.

He looks inside towards doors and corridors.

He is gestured on: he must hurry in. The opening yawns in front of him. He takes the plunge. The hidden door swings to behind him and locks; there was the sound of a slight click. The arrow polisher can feel his heart beating heavily against his ribs.

This is like a dream. A dark gliding dream. He is not in control of it any longer. It must simply be accomplished. A dark gliding dream.

He does not know where he is. Doors open. Doors glide silently shut. His brain is spinning and lightning is flashing. Someone is calling in the darkness. And it is all gliding along on its own momentum and must be accomplished.

What brought me here? He remembers the corridor as an irresistible stream of beautiful gilded arrows between dark walls. They lent him strength and carried him over obstacles. He risked everything and went with them. But now they help him no longer. Now he is simply here, and there is no way back. Oh yes, they must be here, carrying him across the abyss gaping in front of him. He never looks down, but senses the abyss beneath the thin crust that bears him up. He is weightless now, nothing but a shell. It is a horrible feeling, but all he can do is go forward. He is not the one in control; he is not the one who has something to say to the people inside.