This is the longest building I have ever seen. It is totally windowless and stretches for at least a mile, although it seems to defy laws of space-time so it may be longer or shorter than that. From certain angles the building's length actually converges perfectly on a vanishing point. As I walk alongside the building I can only imagine it as a thought, a single orthogonal receding to infinity. The spatial illusion is compounded by simple gray rectangles that glide along the blank facade like dotted lines on an overlay. It looks like an Ellsworth Kelly interpretation of Superman chasing a train.

Even more bizarre is that the building hovers within a tree-less, pole-less, car-less, human-less no-man's-land discouraging any approach. My theory is that this lunar "bermuda rectangle" is a protective mine field, and even if I was able to somehow circumvent the mine field and approach the building I would only walk right through it, revealing it to be not a building but a beam of light.

I fantasize that within the beam of light is a lost pixel, shooting across the barren Total Recall grid of my own mindscape, and I become light-headed. The flatness of Illinois has become physically oppressive and hallucinatory, auto-piloting my body in parallel with its features.

After 15 minutes of walking I finally reach the end of the building only to find this flawlessly long and straight sidewalk. Shaken, I hurry back to the car and drive home in the most cock-eyed route I can muster. If objects did not block other objects, if there were no opaque things, if the full and absolute vectors of space and time confronted us in the landscape at all times (which they sometimes do in the midwest) I would become a permanent vector zombie, entranced by the powers of infinity that are normally (and thankfully) hidden from me.