Imagine a door, they say, numbered 153. Behind it lies the corridor of introspection, echoing with the footsteps of those who dared venture beyond the threshold of insignificance.
Have you ever pondered the irony of a number? Seasonal, temporary, yet our lives seem to unfurl around numeric symphonies we cannot compose ourselves.
"Don't go through the door!" they warned. But here, in this web of thoughts, the door becomes our own design, like a pop-up menu of fate.
Corridor Memoir 8 - The repressed soliloquies of a door left ajar. What tales would it whisper if it had the breath of life or the nerve to creak?