i walk towards the third door, the decision lacking conviction, leaving my stride irregular. as i close, the door’s substance seems to fade, darkening into a rectangular hole, its edges jagged. some light remains, a minute dash of gold, melted into the shape of a key at eye-height. from all around this marking air is expelled, a sibilant wind, pushing at me gently, catching in my ears to a...
we are falling into the circles the smallest pieces are taking shape and taking charge