No name survives the door.
All roads begin here, and none return unchanged.
The sign is older than the hand that points to it.
Read what cannot be spoken.
Enter by error. Leave by accident.
Every mark is a wound. Every wound is a gate.
Nothing here was made to guide you.
Every object in this image is a door, but no sentence is. The words drift over the surface and lead nowhere; the cross, the pole, the hull, the scroll do not announce themselves as links, and that is exactly what they are.