About a Door
I could write a word or two about that little one, and how he stands before a door. It was Saturday, going on for six, the little one had arrived and stood there, nothing else was happening. I don’t know who could find this significant and what might be written about nothing. The little one was nondescript, but such was the time as well, history found itself in a rift, sizzling with all kinds of follies. Many stand before many a door, there is nothing new or special to it, people and doors have been written about: it is not an exceptional topic. I am rather well informed about that kid. Twenty years have elapsed since then, I am not certain, however, that time matters much. Time both passes and does not pass, both exists and does not exist. The same is true of that little one
