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The short man, he's outside, he's walking, looking for his door. He's waiting, he sees it, it's waving, waving in the frame. He moves, it opens, a hundred motes of light dance in the shadows, and he glides through them, forgotten dust, forgotten like dust. A creak, the future meets the past at the slam of the door. Snick. Lock locked. He whirls, he's spinning, he turns back to the door. The bass beats deep in his chest, quivers shallow in the veins on the side of his head, his temples, his excellent peripheral visions blurs on the edges, sweat like budding horns on an innocent demon appear and wait for him to move. He swallows and refaces the darkness, the dankness, the moral dread of perseverance. He finally enters the house. That god forsaken house. Flowers and puppy dogs, virgins singing like angels, angels weeping like mothers, he twists them into a thick bundle, bends it, pops it, it pops and that sticky residue making motion moist spills out over his fingers and dries. The room is behind this room. He can't move. The walls are made of concrete. There's a bed, an ancient quilt at absolute zero draped over it, a side table, a vase with a real flower sprayed with acrylic, forever dead. Behind the door is another door. He can't move. He walks over to it. He scratches the skin on his cheeks, rubs his eye with his finger, rubs the paper on his cheeks and scratches the raspy stubble in his eye, he forgets he entered the steel room until he sits down and remembers that the bedroom had a rug in it too. The steel room is octagon shaped, shaped like an eight turned into a box, rusty, metal, orange. The party, the celebrities, the banister and the balcony, their sounds in his ears leak out and he hears them backwards as the angels begin to moan. They have no soul. Angels have no soul. A thousand, a million hundred billion trillion thousand angels as one moan they do not wail. He hugs his knees. His long legs folded. His long legs bent at the knee and the hip, he gnaws on his knees and the bass deep in his chest moans and endless breathless dread. The dread of moral perseverance. The loneliness and inequity of existence. The disassociation with allness. The abandonment of soul. His is in the the octagon room. It is shaped like the number eight. There is another door. The tears in his throat lubricate his focus, the short man stands and terrifies the opposite door. He terrifies at it. He faced the dread at the fireplace, marriage of carbon and oxygen, heat and passion pouring out of him to feed the flames and he enjoyed the dread and moral starvation. He is observation. The door is open, now there are three doors, a fireplace, a staircase leading to a basement full of abandoned tires and never broken vases, no banister, a slippery staircase made of old cheap wood and the bottoms of well-worn shoes. The new doors is all of these. It's open, it's pulsing, it's made of misplayed music, the waxing, the waning, the mute of broken notes. Tacit and tesseract the new room he wants to go in after he leaves is infinity in an instant. French fries and onion rings. The light feels good, turns his skin red, makes him fat and acceptable again. His soul has deep scratches in it, he's proud of them, they give him something to focus on instead of the possibility of failure. He succeeds because. The short man longs for the fourth door.
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