I enter the corridor, clutching my sword. Somewhere here must be Room 6007, where I will receive Form F‑B3T-42—the document that will finally allow me to confront those wretched bureaucrats face-to-face and begin my merciless crusade against them. In the hallways of the Bureau, I will wade through their blood. Their pitiless reign will come to an end; never again will they tyrannize us with their paperwork. I smile, certain of victory. Somewhere here must be Room 6007.
I enter the corridor to my bedroom. It is always the same ritual. First, I darken the room completely; then, at a very low volume—near the threshold of hearing, so to speak—I let soft ambient drones play. I lie on my back with my hands folded across my chest, close my eyes, and observe as my breath becomes calmer, until it is nearly imperceptible. The shimmering figures wavering across the inside of my retinas grow increasingly colorful, and suddenly, a door stands before me. It is always the same: dark, solid wood with inlays—abstract geometric patterns that create an impression of perspective. I press down the well-worn bronze handle and enter a new adventure, brimming with anticipation.
Let’s see what the Little People have in store for me this time. (Just don’t fall asleep first!)
I enter the… corridor? It doesn’t look like one at all. I’m not sure. Didn’t I actually want to go to the… summer house? I knew it just a second ago. Everything is slipping away from me. The thoughts, the words, the… rose beds? In the nursing home, the strange woman said—she told me I was here in a nursing home; she said it very slowly and with such emphasis. But I don’t know anything about a nursing home; I’m here at the… train station, right?
There in the mirror above the sink, someone is making an announcement. I don’t understand it. She looks like an old woman. But I don’t want to talk to her. She doesn’t know any better than I do. Anyway, I have to get off at the next stop. I press the… stop button, but suddenly everything is getting wet. The… escalators must have been completely remodeled; everything has changed so much. Even the door to the garden isn’t there anymore. Is this really my… home? If only I knew…
I enter the corridor—which isn’t really a corridor at all, because at the push of a button, I can transform it into a study, a TV room, or a guest room. Unfortunately, over the many years I’ve devoted to building and outfitting my motorhome, my travel anxiety has grown steadily. As a result, I can’t make it any further in my rolling home than the local supermarket to stock up on supplies; then, parking back on the patch of grass in front of my little house, I simply imagine I’m spending my retirement on extensive tours across the continent.
Not only is it more eco-friendly this way, but the way I picture these travels becomes increasingly precise and vivid, until there is almost no difference as to whether I am truly lingering in foreign lands—and sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I am gripped by an inexplicable homesickness.
I enter the corridor, one of dozens. Or was it hundreds by now? But something is different this time. The doors! They are merely painted onto the walls on either side. Deceptively real, to be sure, but when I reach for the handle, my hand meets seamless stone. The passage at the end: another trompe‑l’œil. And as I run back to the entrance, plagued by a grim foreboding, all that awaits me there is the mere likeness of the archway through which I entered. I pound my fists against it, kick at the mock doors until my feet ache, but the truth remains: This is my final corridor. The comfortable illusion that it would go on forever shatters against the hard, cold stone, where my fingernails don’t even leave a scratch.
I enter the corridor. One of the windows opposite the doors looks out onto a small courtyard where a fountain splashes. In a small cluster of palms, birds chirp carefree. I stand there for a long time, savoring the view and the fresh air wafting in. How I would love to be out there! But with these long horns, I don’t fit through the window.
I enter the corridor with the amphibians. My father has thought of everything—even providing tanks for the creatures that spend part of their lives in water but wouldn’t survive the Great Flood. The cages are small, but there has to be room for everyone. Despite the constant drumming of rain on the wooden deck above, I can hear the lions in the big cat corridor. They have been hungry for days. My father hadn’t accounted for that. Yesterday, we discussed which animals we should feed to our carnivores. It’s a difficult decision because no matter what we choose, those animals will be extinct after the flood.
I defended the cute rabbits, the lively squirrels, the adorable goats, and even the naked mole rats tooth and nail. Let Dad take the ugly Nasobames. They smell horrible and are of no use to anyone. He seemed to agree, but I suspect he’s going to start with the unicorns after all. He’s had it in for them ever since the mare, right in the middle of a feeding, gouged out his left eye.
Security.org: “It would take longer to crack your password ‘I enter the corridor.’ than the universe has existed. This should be sufficiently secure for any attack. It would take a computer about 500,000,000,000,000,000,000 years to crack your password.”
I enter the corridor and pull the door shut behind me. The noise of the party is muffled into a dull murmur. Taking a deep breath, I remove my mask. I’ve never been in this part of the castle before. It’s likely a passage for servants leading to the kitchen. I open one of the windows to let the fresh air dry the sweat on my forehead. It feels as if we’ve spent weeks here behind closed doors with the drawbridge raised, indulging ourselves in unrestrained revelry.
In the window glass, I see a blue discoloration of the skin near my collar, but I attach no further significance to it. Instead, I curiously examine the small, tied bundle on the windowsill. I unfold a long black cloak in which a mask, a large hourglass, and a scythe are wrapped—the handle of which folds out. I drape the cloak over my shoulders and suddenly feel young and full of purpose again, even daring a few small dance steps and pirouettes. The mask depicts a skull. Mine has become useless; I simply toss it out the window. It lands somewhere in the depths of the courtyard, lying in a darkness the pale moonlight cannot reach.
The scythe in my right hand gives me a good feeling. The clock strikes. It is time to go back among the revelers.
I enter the corridor—and I didn’t even want to: Where is my head? How can one be so impractical and lost in dreams! But complaining won’t help me here. So I turn back, leave the corridor that can offer me nothing, and step into the herb garden. Ahhh, here I can breathe freely, and a symphony of different scents welcomes me. What on earth do I need corridors for? I couldn’t care less about them: This right here, these narrow paths between the beds, is where I feel at ease. It’s the place that inspires me with numerous ideas, jests, and yarns—a place I can never visit often enough, no matter the season.
