to let you savor it, posts may be less frequent, but far more awesome.

     again, you find your dream has led you to this place: barefoot, confused. you take each step slowly, each one cautiously–each, a chill traveling up your ankles to the backs of your knees–through this unfamiliar, dusty and darkened corridor. there is a dry acrid odor that seems to settle like a fine layer of silt on the moist surfaces of your throat as you breathe the air in. your eyes cannot make out the shapes around you in the darkness, but you feel the door ahead of you in your conscious mind. you know it is there. you can just about trace the contours of its dry beveled wood with your fingertips; still, an expanse of indeterminate darkness separates you.
     you fumble your way forward, hands outstretched in front of your body, mid-height in the case you run into some malevolent shadow. you feel the hall stretching longer as though your quick pace could only garner you the delusion of progress. fruitless, thoroughly impossible, you say. should you turn back? but where could you go to? there had been no precise place of origin that you could point out. then in the midst of these thoughts, you find your fingers already pressing against chipped veneer and rusted brass. it is as clear as day to you now, this door still completely blanketed in interminable darkness: roan red, solid mahogany–but aged. not so much in the sense of the careful ripening of a full-bodied cabernet sauvignon, but rather like the folding of misshapen hands in a tawny armchair beside two narrow double-glazed windows that peer over a desolate wind-swept wasteland.
      a wave of colourless dread washes over your previous thoughts of anticipation. it occurs to you that the doorknob is missing, perhaps wrenched off in a bout of general discontent or in some last living vestige of profound despair. but oh, how small your hands are!