THE ANATOMY.

There is a door at the back of the wardrobe.

It is the right size for a person who pays attention.

Please come in. The lantern is already lit.

Every brain is a small country with seven billion inhabitants.

We have drawn it as a kingdom: a forest, a library, a clockwork, a garden, a fence.

Turn the page when you are ready. The names are also real.

A traveller stands at the centre of the kingdom, wearing many coats.

Each coat is a system. Each seam is a town.

Tap a knot on the traveller to read its true name.

At the north gate, two villages trade sentences back and forth.

Broca composes the words; Wernicke greets them when they arrive.

Behind them, the Council of the Forehead deliberates on what to do next.

Down a long hallway, a librarian keeps two copies of every day you have lived.

One copy is the feeling of the day. The other is the order things happened.

Please return your memories to their proper shelf on the way out.

Three small towers watch the gates of the kingdom day and night.

When something arrives that should not be here, the tallest tower rings once.

A lighthouse inside the chest tells the rest of the kingdom how the weather is.

Behind the market, a long theatre for the ear runs the length of a hill.

Each seat hears one frequency. Together they tell jokes, lies, and lullabies.

Next door, a quiet garden recognises every face you have ever seen.

A tall round room where every surface is a map of the body.

The fingers are huge here. The tongue is medium. The heart is small.

When you reach for a cup, this is the room that knows where the cup is.

At the back of the kingdom, a dark cinema shows the world as it arrives.

First the screen shows only edges and dots. Then shapes. Then names.

There is a small booth at the back where words are spelled out by light.

A great hall where every parcel in the kingdom passes through.

Each letter has a stamp. Each stamp has a district. Each district has a colour.

A small firewall at the door lets only the urgent parcels through at night.

A very small basement, no bigger than a thimble, runs the whole kingdom.

It counts the water. It counts the salt. It counts the hours of dark.

When the count is wrong, it rings a bell in the towers above.

A wide courtyard where habits are kept in stone.

Beside it, a clockmaker with tiny bells, tuning every movement.

A small black gate at the centre can stop the whole courtyard in a single breath.

Below everything, a stone cavern with one slow heartbeat.

It holds the breath. It holds the pulse. It holds the day.

Around it, a silver forest keeps the kingdom awake, even when it dreams.

A long white bridge, brighter than any road in the kingdom.

Across it, the left hand tells the right hand what it has done.

Smaller bridges carry memory, value, and song from one bank to the other.

When the kingdom is quiet, the rooms start to talk to each other.

Some rooms plan. Some rooms wander. Some rooms listen for surprises.

A small committee decides which room is in charge tonight.

A walled garden where every step is grown, not taken.

First a plan. Then a rehearsal. Then a single, careful movement.

There is a looking-glass in the garden that copies the steps of others.

A tall fence runs the whole way around the kingdom.

On the fence: eyes, ears, a nose, a tongue, a thousand small feelers.

Nothing enters the kingdom without first tapping the fence politely.

Past the fence, the outpost. Where the kingdom meets the body.

Tendons speak of weight. Muscles speak of length. Skin speaks of weather.

A small hormone radio tower keeps the whole body on the same clock.

Lit by Pitch Black Industries, Sydney, MMXXVI.

Drawn with paper, ink, and a single violet lamp.

May your kingdom be quiet, and may your lantern stay lit.