The Last Door

There is a slow madness in the perfectly pearl-colored walls that divide rooms into smaller rooms: rooms lined with corridors, corridors lined with clocks, clocks lined with the slow cadence of time.  As youth marches past opened doors that shut irreversibly behind them, one might begin to sense a very corporeal form of time – one of small wisps lingering across the threshold.  A particular youth, further along, begins to hear the siren call of the wisps behind each door.  He tries to regain entry to a locked door of an opportunity past, while behind the golden keyhole the wisps whisper softly of treasures he may never hold.  We spin the dial forward on the clock-laden walls, to find a man of lightly speckled grey who wistfully sighs as he meanders past doors never opened.  To this time, he has never pounced upon a golden time and never cherished a fleeting moment.  Towards the end of time, as denominated by our desolate halls, we have one last door.  What lies behind this door contains no time at all, no mystery, no madness; in whose absence, it contains only certainty.



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