Of all the bright cruel lies they tell you, the cruelest is the one called love...
In the night. Agony.
He was in the corridors again, the low dim corridors. But now the corridors were twisted and torturous and he had long since lost his way. The air was thick with a rotting gray haze, and growing thicker. Soon, he feared, he would be all but blind.
Around and around he walked, up and down, but always there was more corridor, and all of them lead nowhere. The doors were grim black rectangles, knobless, locked to him forever, he passed them by without thinking, most of them. Once or twice, though, he paused, before doors where light leaked through the frame. He would listen, and inside there were sounds, and then he would begin to knock wildly. But no one ever answered.
So he would move on, through the haze that got darker and thicker and seemed to burn his skin, past door after door after door, until he was weeping and his feet were tired and bloody. And then, off aways, down a long long corridor that loomed straight before him, he would see an open door. From it came a light so hot and white it hurt his eyes, and music bright and joyful, and the sounds of people laughing. Then he would run, though his feet were raw bundles of pain and is lungs burned with the haze he was breathing. He would run and run until he reached the room with the open door.
Only when he got there, it was his room, and it was empty.
He was in the corridors again, the low dim corridors. But now the corridors were twisted and torturous and he had long since lost his way. The air was thick with a rotting gray haze, and growing thicker. Soon, he feared, he would be all but blind.
Around and around he walked, up and down, but always there was more corridor, and all of them lead nowhere. The doors were grim black rectangles, knobless, locked to him forever, he passed them by without thinking, most of them. Once or twice, though, he paused, before doors where light leaked through the frame. He would listen, and inside there were sounds, and then he would begin to knock wildly. But no one ever answered.
So he would move on, through the haze that got darker and thicker and seemed to burn his skin, past door after door after door, until he was weeping and his feet were tired and bloody. And then, off aways, down a long long corridor that loomed straight before him, he would see an open door. From it came a light so hot and white it hurt his eyes, and music bright and joyful, and the sounds of people laughing. Then he would run, though his feet were raw bundles of pain and is lungs burned with the haze he was breathing. He would run and run until he reached the room with the open door.
Only when he got there, it was his room, and it was empty.