|
| The house seems to go on forever. He has never reached a corner where he
couldn't turn into a forgotten pathway, some lost hall he must have walked on a long time
ago. |
 |
|
Stairways moving into darkness. |
|
| Long libraries that never end. |
Little crawlways that open into ancient monasteries. |
|
| So many options, so many choices, a fiery carnaval of color waiting behind
every door. |
|
| And yet, he just sits, looking at the same two books, at the little electric toaster
and the four torn magazines. |
Waiting for something to happen. |
