Corridors of Ink

There are times when it is Necessity to be alone. In such moments, When the mind shimmers between the real and ethereal, I desire to find myself in a deserted town Devoid of human life But reflecting its nature, Only there can man find answers about himself Beneath a setting sun My hands have lingered on the walls Deserted by their builders, But whose purpose I can feel As if the town, denizens and makers, were speaking As buildings are a language in the spatial world, The landscape of paper is populated by many such constructs of ink Whose endless corridors I wish to wander