THE WALL

Curtains are there to curtail visions, distract a one from one's own imaginary world, filter out from the daily equation any backup portal into the personal space of options, imagination being to most like a black hole from which one cannot come out unless, unless one start looking to the 'what is inside the self';

Doors are all over the place, each a buffer area giving out a whiff of 'freedom' of choice, that to enter or not, and yet, an overtone of danger cancels for all the consideration of 'taking the risk';

In fact, what is still called 'democracy' has morphed into a huge 'marais' oozing out a fog of fear which freezes all things 'alive' into a kind of 'salted' posture, as one can dream off when that one walks through a cemetery in the awakening morning's haze, for then all things are at a standstill, while all them ghosts which populate the innards of that walker, shake the 'barn' as frenzied bats homing in back after a night's bloody hunting, weighing down that one's day into a slur