Knots and Questions

They crouched in a posture that felt half-confession, half-interrogation, fingers grazing rubber insulation like priests worrying rosary beads. The plywood altar gaped, revealing a nest of primary colors, tangled as their reasoning, each twist rehearsing the same doubt: had Vojta ever finished the circuit they began? On the floor, the plea sprawled in wire script—WHERE VOJTA?—its earnest curve ridiculing their competence as it hummed a question thicker than silence. The ritual demanded pairs: right hand steadying while left coaxed a loop through its labyrinth, sweaters rubbing, hats tilted to disguise fatigue or, worse, devotion. A camera loomed like an unimpressed oracle, recording proof they once tried alignment before the current broke faith. Dust hovered, motionless and ceremonial, gilding the edge of that open panel. Touch lingered on the cables, warm despite the chill settling in their words. No spark came, only braided vows and that bright taunt on the hardwood floor. And still, with every stroke of color, Vojta declined to appear.