t he Door
cross Thee cross the t he the Threshold .
A Door sits somewhere, far, far away, so close that you can feel it, alone in the rustling winds of a wheat field, the sky stained pink with the sun's blood as it dies for the trillionth time, lonesome in the basement of a long abandoned office, rotten and ragged down to the foundations, isolated in the umbrage of too-long hall nestled in your house for less than a moment, only present when you're looking away. Always lonely, lonely, lonely. All of infinity, all alone, lone, lonely. But on rare occasions, the Door is opened. A creak cries out like a call for someone, anyone, anything at all, and it is answered. You are together. You don't know It, but It knows You. And finally, after all this time, after a diminutive eternity, pale in the face of What Comes Next, you are together. You are together.
