Without a thought I open the door. Later, I think about it, and I close the door. But the door opens me. And, later, I am closed by the door. It is neither that the door is real and I am not, nor that I am real and the door is not. Nor is it the fact that, as I might realize, there are no such things as doors. Am I a door?

But in my saddened, delusional dream, the one I re-enact at every open opportunity, I think that I both understand the mundane, and see beyond it. How sad for me. In such a state, all doors are walls. Inside I am like a stone made from sand glued together.

Deep within some far-away bird, the voice of my liberation rings out like the dawn.

Alas, how I adore my familiar prisons!