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Two doors stand before me.  One dark, painted in hues of mud brown and blood red.  I reach out; stroking the heavy wooden frame.  It is rough, worn by age and atmosphere, foreboding and almost ugly in appearance.  I shiver and side step to the other door.  It's companions opposite, yet I cannot bear the look of it either.  It is not beautiful.  I turn my head.  The door is radiant with light, the heat of a thousand suns radiates from it.  My face feels hot and I shade my eyes from its reflection.  It is beyond white, the color of glass yet I cannot see through it.  It is not beauty that illuminates it, yet it beacons me to seek it out.  I step forward to touch it hesitating only a moment.  Suddenly the doors are gone and I am alone.

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I saw her again today,

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She lay face down, unable to see him, anticipating his arrival. As she awaited the impending manipulation she attempted to quell her craving for caffeine as it swelled inside her ... did it stem from her mind or from her stomach? She could not differentiate its exact source because the feeling was devoid of distinction. It was body wide. It was growing into a rawness that she was accustom to being forced to endure each morning.
Lying prone her vision was bereft of view, of light. The isolation was taking its toll on her.

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