There is the question of who? This is where the mystery is. Whodunit? In the room called 3 there is much that is undetermined. There are threads of evidence and the disclosure of clues and even lifting the cup to your lips to sip is an act of creation. Here, doors are doors only so long as there is the will for it to be so. Stories that look like everyday facts discover something quite different than they appear. There is no question of how or what, only who. The very periphery of the present moment vanishes into the great rushing emptiness of the void, and all along the isthmus between existence and non-existence blooms creativity like a lush garden on the verge of a vast desert. The air is sweet. The soul-stuff plies in threads. There are stories told of the travelers of the void, but who could possibly live to tell such tales? Who can cup in their breast such sucking emptiness? That way madness lies.
In the room called 3 everything and everyone is in a state of sensitivity. The very atoms whisper. All are witness. And just as every desert has its caravanserai, so the void has its gathering places. And like the caravanserai, there is tea and sohbet and chess. Be prepared to hold your own. Be prepared to turn soberly in your drunkenness. If they suffer you gladly, it must be you who is the fool. Or not, as the case may be.
In the room called 3, the door opens into anywhere, anytime. There is much that depends on who you are when entering through that door. There is strange coincidence. So much arises through bewilderment. You are never far from the desert.