Desperate men seek reassurances from oracles of destruction; confident men from oracles of depression. The circle begot the circle begot the circle...Finite possibilities present themselves as infinite and we fall for them, every single time, and we never learn. Learned men, when found, dance with the devils of their minds, turbulent waters indeed; but there is something profound in the look of someone who gets it, the spark of ingenious ingenuity that lights eyes and quivers lips; the virulent satisfaction gained from thinking the unthinkable. Draw the circle so it comes within itself and it will eventually end.

He awoke speckled in faecal matter. This was a desperate man, with no oracle of destruction in sight. His circle didn't spiral. His lip never quivered and his eyes never lit up. How he came to be speckled in faecal matter was not immediately apparent, for he was lying in the middle of a pristine white room. The silence penetrated nothing but his growing fear. He found a profound thought surface from his panicked mind; his name was absent; as was his date of birth, his home and family. Nothing even approaching a reminiscence made itself known. He was alone and anonymous.

He scanned his surrounded and espied a white doorknob. He grabbed it. He turned it. He cursed it. A bang on the wall and he scurried away to the centre of the room. A lock unlocked and the door – of a magnitude formerly in double figures – opened upon a man wearing a black gimp suit. He held a vertical finger to the closed zip in front of his mouth. His erection was brown but the cause of the colour quickly became apparent that melanin was not the culprit. He approached, closing the door as he did so.

{To forgo description of the inevitable, the sordid affair ended with a knife}

Tears were already rolling down his face when he came round. The bandanna was still tied over his mouth and his tongue felt heavy. Blood spread across the floor from his groin. The door stood ajar, mocking him with laughter, a solitary voice revelling.

He remembered being told to chew.

He chewed twice before darkness.

Religious men seek reassurances from oracles of disinterest; emasculated men from oracles of grace. Certain men live their entire lives – the only one you get, contrary to popular belief – within the confines of constraints and rules; others within etiquette and morality; others still within strict upbringing and fear. The one dream of all these men is to be the one to create the rules, even abolish them. Such was the dream of a mute castrato. He bought an old brass-works factory and spent much of his mortality resigning and rebuilding. He – in a stroke of genius – called it the BrassWorks to gain his retribution; the oracle of grace was busy masquerading as a god. He was content, but he demanded from himself the ability to help others. The Organ-Grinder Wing is named in his honour. Seventeen rooms with meat hooks and two blank rooms for the results, but you already know about them.

Come in and see opportunities, he might have said could he have said such a thing. Open your mind.