The long corridor with all the doors. The floor was slippery. You could slide a long way. North and south. The afternoon sun and the leaning tower. The evening sun and the treetops. Behind every door another home. Another bed, another closet, another desk. But yet the same every time. My home is red, your home is blue, but together we paint our home yellow.
The bridge was there temporarily but already a while. Enter through one door, or the next door? Room after room after corridor after room. Crawl through, sneak through. A collage of beams and walls. Dancing in the kitchen, laughing between the shields, kissing in the attic. The sun rises through the green window panes. With the great jingling of the bunch of keys the doors are closed.
Like a street, a square, houses stacked. The step inwards is a step ahead. It buzzes. About lines, colours and spaces. About yes or no, good or bad, pretty or ugly. In a straight line up, and zigzagging down again. The ceilings are high enough to let your thoughts rise. They flutter back down on the paper. Time flies and freezes. The step outwards is a step ahead.