The pages I found are scrap paper: burnt pixels and non-existent character encodings. I wrapped my wound in it, which stopped bleeding, even though my arm is trembling as I write these umpteenth words.

This page has no more links: I don’t know where to take the next step. Shreds of broken cables lie on the ground, attached at one end to the page, illuminated by the white LED in front of me. I don’t know if I can move from here.

I’m stuck with no more connections to follow, traces left by who knows who between one point and another.

I pick up the broken wires from the ground trying to catch a glimpse of where they were pointing, what request they were carrying, what dream they were chasing: there is no clue left.

I bring the broken wire close to my face, observing the dangling pieces in the artificial half-light. I notice that sparks are falling from the tip like those I have already encountered, sparks of light that go out on the dry earth. I clench it tighter, then, and stick it into this page that promises to keep me here. I push it so deep that it burns me with the electricity that keeps passing senselessly through something that no longer knows how to speak, I stab it until I feel the cold heat of liquid crystals dripping onto my fingers.

And, when the cable finally pierces the paper, I pull it with me until the next page..