Jorge Luis Borges, 1941, translated here
You are a man of Babylon at the quay; a ship waits at the rope behind you. Press your thumb into the clay and you enter the lottery that runs this city. Every mark you make will be answered: a game, then a prison, then a record kept by a hand you never see. At the end the sun is yours, and the light decides what was there.
Press the thumb hollow below to begin.
The seal is never shown: only its impressions exist, read by one low sun. The lottery is chance, seeded once for your visit. The archive changes its tablets on purpose whenever they leave your view. The cuneiform is invented and says nothing. There is no Company object anywhere in the scene, and no hand but yours.