The Medicine Cabinet

In the enclosure there is a medicine cabinet.

In the medicine cabinet there are: two bottles, one orange, one green; a piece of wet cloth; and a three day old mirror.

How do we know it is a three day old mirror?

Because it does not function as a one or two day mirror. But perhaps I should say, instead, 'a mirror that is at least three days old,' as I do not know that it is actually three days old. All mirrors function largely the same at and after the three-day point; the difference is so slight and negligable it is not worth mentioning, but I should at least leave this fact in the notes to avoid the chance of misleading any reader into believing that I know the exact age of the mirror in the cabinet.

The contents of both bottles have gone undisturbed since observation began, though they are occasionally handled. The cloth remains wet, and though we have often seen it removed, we can discern neither its use nor what keeps it wet. She begins fiddling with it at night, you see--the cabinet door has a very particular snap sound that cannot be confused with any other sound in the enclosure-- and so by the time she removes something and, we assume, uses it, we often do not get a glimpse of it. We do not know the strength or nature of the prescriptions, or the other objects; we do not know if those she indulges in are the strongest, or the weakest of the assortment. We keep full watch on the enclosure (it is very tiring), and yet there are still these things that are continually missed. The night observers are several and often changed (I myself have taken the shift), so it is not possible that one researcher has been slacking in their duties. Our books are numerous, but sadly lacking.

Sometimes I wonder if any of the other scientists notice this. Sometimes I wonder if this strange blank, this blind spot in our research has not somehow been crafted by some force determined to keep us from the end goal of our observations. I feel there is some intention out there, whether hers or one of my colleagues or only that of the sun itself, to keep-from-knowing.

It grows dark again. My shift is over.

To Watch

Sometimes she feels as if she has spent her whole life watching things sleep--in envy, fear; in love.

There is a story that says "there must be someone to watch." But the story does not explain why. It is not the habit of this particular author to explain these sorts of things. It is not the habit of most authors, really, to explain the very point of their writing. This is not a little frustrating. Perhaps that is why Einos is a very difficult creature, or process, for us to study--it is not a speaking one, but a watching one, and so as scientists, watchers ourselves, this makes us feel very self conscious in our methods. We know she is not aware of us, and yet, this inclination to watch things that sleep--well, let us just say that it certainly has not encouraged us to happy, easy dreams.

From inside the wire cell, she can still see the forms of those that wander the desert. Some perhaps looking for her; some perhaps just wandering. When night comes on, they sometimes lie down alongside one of the walls of her cell to sleep. She creeps, then, over to that wall and, crouched down on her knees or balanced on her toes, she will watch them sleep all night, as if expecting them to stir (they occasionally do), or making sure they will not--we cannot really be sure of her intention (her face is always shadowed in these dark hours), only of her curiousity. Perhaps she does not herself know why she watches these strange, almost-visitors who come close to her only in sleep.

But they, unlike us, do sleep, and if not easily, completely.

After the wanderer has woken and left, she most often goes directly to her desk and writes, here eyes fixed a little unnaturally wide, looking not a little disturbed. Sometimes we catch a shining line tracing from her right eye to her chin--we never see or hear it, but it must be that she sometimes cries, though only from the right eye, it seems.