One

Behind the door is nothing but nothing. Not blackness, because nothing is not black; not darkness, for nothing is less than the absence of light. Not silence, because silence can be heard, and you, here, cannot hear a thing.

You walk through the nothing, your soles not catching on the absence of coarse sand, your skin not cooled by thin air. Time does not pass. You do not age. People don’t, here. People aren’t, here. You meet nobody, and nobody grins at you through what might or might not have been yellowed and crumbling teeth, once, behind some other door…

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