Is there a place you have never been to? Say, a small space within larger places that you know, or perhaps the edge of somewhere unknown that lies nearby?
Can you get to it quickly?
Is this an unknown where you can turn through 360 degrees? Is there a horizon there (or something that passes for one)?
From where you are, can you make out an escape route? What if you avoided it, or couldn’t use it; could you still edge your way around and away? Unobserved? What are your chances? Rising or falling?
Say, subtract fifteen sounds from what you are hearing; then what else is happening on the soundtrack? Or going on in the big pipes?
What is coming?
Is your way back blocked? What if you were still able to get back to where it all started? As if you were going to pass the beginning and then take another step into the beyond, all the time telling yourself a story?
What would the junctions then represent?
And the metaphor of your ignoring that escape route?
And if you’ve already turned the story into a blanket, wrapping it tightly around you, what if you were to drop it now and begin to walk its words into the paths, sidewalks, alleys? What turns of phrase would hide from you in the creases of doorways?
Why would you save the best until last? Why would easier be best?
Why would you walk a difficult novel into the market place?