There once was a pilgrim who believed that the world owed him an explanation.
Why the roads bend. Why the signs point where they point. What lies behind the next hill. Somewhere, he was sure, it was all written down.
And one night, on a quiet square, he found the place where it must be written.
A tall round column for notices.
A little kiosk with an i above the shutter.
Information, it promised.
He went to the column first. It was covered, top to bottom, in paper.
Every sheet was blank. Faded by sun, softened by rain, and blank.
He knocked on the kiosk's shutter. It stayed down. No opening hours were posted, which was, in its own way, the most honest notice on the square.
On top of the column, a small black box blinked blue. It had nothing to announce either.
And slowly, the pilgrim understood.
Sometimes the most honest information
is that there is nothing to report.
And a blank page lies less than most.
This is no library. No archive. No help desk for the lost.
It is a column of blank paper and a closed kiosk.
Nothing more.
So, Traveler —
There is no information here.
No answers.
No frequently asked questions, because nobody asks.
The kiosk will not open.
Go home, pilgrim.
And the square, at last, was well informed.