Taking eight hours to walk across a room and leave.
A gallery 55 feet long and 15 feet wide.
No windows, grey walls, fluorescent lights.
A closed door at the far end.
Two white wooden chairs sitting next to each other at one end, facing the length of the room.
An expanse of floor, covered with a thin layer of flour.
Pristine.
Outside it is snowing, the city becoming buried in white.
Eight hours.
I begin by sitting in one of the chairs.
And I realize that I am sitting next to an empty chair.
I contemplate the distant door.
I think about the task of walking across the room.
The flour on the surface of the floor records my journey, my footsteps.
I take my chair with me.
I bring the empty chair with me as long as I can.
Eventually both are abandoned.
I approach the door.
I look back at the path I have made over the hours.
I leave.
