In a deserted place in Iran there is a stone tower, not very high, without any door or windows.  In its only room (whose floor is dirt and whose shape is a circle) are a wooden table and a bench.  In this circular cell, a man who looks like me is writing, in letters that I don't understand, a long poem about a man who in another circular cell is writing a poem about a man who in another circular cell. . . .  This process has no end, and no one will be able to read what the prisoners are writing.