No no no
no. You got it
all wrong. Life's—a small
room.
Where your
stiff graceless
bed is. And it's
death
that's the compulsory white door in the
corner,
which you
easily push open
without thinking
and shuffle be-
grudgingly through
in the
morning—and come to this
hallway.
With many nice-ish things
on its
walls
and an early slick dark kind
of coolness
to its
floor. And, well,
nothing's
really
wrong at all. Except—that it's,
you're dim-
ly
apprehending, a long
long
long
long,
long—neverending
sort of hallway;
and so
you presume it's too
late—that
you're pretty
committed
now. Or more
precisely—you're doomed
to remain
wide awake and walking
for at least
the next—
very.
very
very? very
very. Very-very very?—yes,
very. next
long little while.
