"There is something foreboding about that door down the corridor. Itís dark, encased in years of dirt and mud. Fluorescent lights above cannot illuminate its blood-rusted hinges, as if the light was a fog, not the herald of recognition. But, that door is so much farther down the corridor. I can walk along that pathway, peering into the key holes of some locked doors while others are flung open before me.

The door behind me now, the first, is warm but not unbearable. It is comfort, sanguine, familiar, and ignorance. The key hole has already been painted over, and I cannot peer into it anymore. The farther I walk from the first door the greater the absence of warmth upon my back, or my face if I look to it again. Some of these doors, like the first, are painted and concealed, but I can still feel their heat with my palm against the wood. Some of these doors arenít even wood; cold steel with large metal bolts; but some are. Protective oaks, timber of the strongest kind, to a paper screen, all can be found here.

Most of my time is spent looking through keyholes, but not all. I could view those doors not yet locked, not even closed, and I can see. Some lead to a corridor identical to mine, except at some point several of the doors have been boarded with beach wood or smelted, scarred like a stitch.

There are doors like that in my corridor too. Some have been marked with a cowardice of yellow; caution tape. Others have chalk outlines, contoured limbs, twists of agony, playing along its hinges and carpets. Several times, out of curiousity--or the screams of hinges turning as doors slammed shut, and I needed silence--I open these doors. Cut through the tape. Turn the knob. Something rank would fall from the ceiling, or already on the floor.

The door in the end of the corridor is in front of me now. That door is always close to me. Such is its nature.

Do I turn away?"

The English assignment concerning imagery I finished this morning. Finally Miller's assigning work that I enjoy. The scheduel she gave us concerning the last seven or so weeks of school, specifically the section on our research papers (which I have accumulated thirty-some resources... now I am in need of a pen to strike out half of them) is going to leave me much tired.


Much badness is in the air at the moment. For a lot of people I know.

So I put on the headphones and listen to the love-theme of "Romeo+Juliet" at full volume.

Sometimes I feel like him. Too often.

. . . . . posted:||1:58 PM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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