Corridor leads to a repository of pictures, with many appearing along the way. For example, she greets me with a smile, mouthing the words hello how have you been, then enfolds me with mutual understanding in the Rorschach of our shared name. While walking, I strain to see for example a look in the eyes of a stranger walking toward me, his hands in his pockets. And then in mine: unfamiliar hand caresses my lining slowly. Slowly. Walking slows to a stop, as the corridor’s architecture braces a leaning malfunction: a few stray breaths, some are caught, some get away. Internal organs press upward against the floor of my larynx, nearly overtaking it so that a whisper sputters, haven’t I seen you somewhere before. A motionless bit, where pictures are still and standing in sequence while others are moving and dart around to avoid congestion. Viewers rest their weight against either side, or squat where perpendicular surfaces meet. Elsewhere the corridor carries us, snaking and turning, prompting pictures through windows here going black there whisking saturated views to the blinks between subway stops. Walking again, I look out from the arched hood of my jacket, itself a moving corridor through which I televise the image ahead — live. It is drizzling, and I am accompanied for 30 seconds by a woman with bare legs balanced on tall narrow blades and a long pate of hair mechanically straightened, a golden clutch and fire colored lips through which she intones, 5 minutes of love for 20 euros. I accept and the picture gives way to several duplicates and transparencies in the vicinity, each selling things in these days to lonely young stags like me. I lift up the corridor’s bottom edge like a heavy gray curtain open to entry or exit via unrecognized channels. Welcome. It is from this gap that you enter as an unexpected image composed of il/legibilities, poised to enlarge meaning in our eventual all-encompassing repository of pictures.