Four hundred and eleven segments, laid end to end down the length of the east corridor, each one a short cut of cord with a fitting at either end, each one spaced at the width of my hand.
The eighth station is a procession, and it is the only piece in the chapel that requires the viewer to walk. From the near end the line reads as objects. From forty feet in it reads as one dotted stroke going away from you, and at the far end it enters the dark doorway of the storage room and does not come back out. I did not want a destination. The line goes into the dark because that is where the corridor went. Every cord in it was cut by somebody else for money, which I mention because I have been that somebody, on a night route, with a knife, and I did not know then that I was preparing the sequence I would spend this year arranging.
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