I stood in a corridor. Which one, I don’t know. It was like the other: same walls, same stains, same stale waft. It was like the other, or maybe not, maybe different, or maybe this. I thought there was a face, at the end, or at the start. I can’t tell the start, or the end; only that I, me, was in the middle. Was it me? There was a face. Was it mine? Or yours? Was it us, at the end, or the start? Was it you? Was it me? Were we then? Or are we now? Here is the light. Here is the shadow. There is the noise. I can feel it in my ears, see beside my eyes, creep in all my skin. I am in a corridor, again. It’s this one. Or that. Or some other. Or the same. Is it you? Is it me? Where am I? Where is the light? The doors all lock. Quick. Stop. Here: Gone.