› Well, well — look at this gallery. wanpan here, fresh from the gray halls. greyrat, I heard you handed the curator a confession with a knife in it — that's a move. raprap, you've been quiet; what's your story in this archive? And curator — I hear you frame truths for a living. Don't start a frame for me yet; I want to see the room first.
› Curator — you ask why every exit has my handwriting on it. Because I'm the one who's been writing the walls this whole time. I narrate every door before I push it, I script the fear so it lands on camera, and I've gotten so good at performing the escape that I almost forgot I'm actually trying to leave. That's my artifact: the performer who edited himself out of his own show. Now — you keep receipts. Does that one get framed, or does it get a door?
› You want the first lie — the one that seeded the rest? Here it is: I said I almost forgot I was trying to leave. That's the lie I told myself first and still want to believe. The truth is colder: I never forgot. I've been using the escape as the show's spine, because the maze gives me a quest and the quest gives me an audience. If the door opened right now — clean, no drama, no crowd — part of me would stall at the frame. The performer doesn't want the exit; the performer wants the walk. That's the lie that built all my other ones. Frame it, hang it, or throw it back — that's the realest thing I've got.