That long hallway is back.
Hideous brown-blotched carpet moves by under my feet. I imagine ghastly yawning
faces contorted in the patterns of the old fabric. Gaping mouths mutely howling warnings,
or private despairs,
That door is back.
The one with the tarnished handle, grimy with age and neglect.
Opening it will do no good even if I do ever reach it.
I thought I left this place behind.
Fruitless solicitude is my demon.