Un Petit Chinoiserie

If a Chinese man is trapped in a Chinese Room, how does he convince the outside world there is a Chinese man in the Chinese Room? 

Are matters complicated if the Chinese man is himself a Chinese Room?

Which contains a Chinese man/Room, Matryoshka-style ad infinitum?

Should he see the psychiatrist who tends to bipolar bears? 

If so, where can said psychiatrist be found, the Equator?

Who Questions the Questioners?

Where do you go if you need to get away but you're already on vacation?

If whatever land he treads on becomes his, must the self-imposed exile never stop walking?

Clothes are made for tall people, and tables for short people. What of tablecloths?

If I have no mouth and I must scream, will I sound nasal?

If the funniest jokes are often the truest, then is life the funniest of them all?

If on a winter's night a reader

I am presently drunk with euphoria after reading If on a winter's night a traveller, by Italo Calvino. As if a homeopathic dose of the proverbial 'Whatever the author is smoking (I want some of that)', amplified by serial draftings and editings, has overwhelmed me.

There are the works that arouse in my pen hand a wanderlust, a desire to once more take flight and set words on paper, knowing that my writing has improved by mere exposure to the author's shadow. And then there are the works so far beyond sublime they are lime; they paralyse that same hand into inaction, for no words I write can ever compare.

If on a winter's night a traveller is both.