Korridorium

♫ Dance Dragon Dance (Intro) ♫

3/398

I enter the corridor. You run towards me with open arms, laughing. Ardinea! I recognize you by the wild color of your eyes.

♫ Wabe-Sabi ♫

5/398

In our corridor

to the parlor, logs in hand.

Warmth? Only with you.

In our corridor—

amaryllis blooms afloat—

how I wish you back.

In our corridor,

I take down our photograph:

Missing you too long.

In our corridor?

From afar, soft moonlight calls.

Why still do I wait?

In our corridor:

off guard, is it you I hold?

Could it…? But a ghost!

♫ Los ratones bailan ♫

8/398

I enter the corridor. Small boards are nailed onto the doors on both sides, and someone has crudely carved words into them with a knife: I read “Gorge” on one, “Horn” on the second, “Cauldron” on the third, and “Cavity” on the fourth. The door at the end of the corridor also bears such a board. “The Chosen One” is written here, and a sudden tingling sensation of happiness spreads through me. Andreia! I had almost given up searching. A note is tucked under the board. I immediately recognize her elegantly scrawled handwriting. “Be right back,” with “right” crossed out and replaced by “eventually.” Never mind. I’ll wait. I’m sure she has a lovely view from her room.

♫ Uppgötvun ♫

24/398

I enter the corridor. This is where we agreed to meet, should we lose each other. And sure enough: the urn is on the windowsill.

♫ Herzzerreißend gleißend ♫

86/398

I enter the corridor—or rather, I float in, still flapping my wings somewhat awkwardly. The corridor is round, like a borehole. I can’t make out any doors. At the end, an unearthly radiance awaits, filling me with a deep, sweet longing. I flutter, trying to move faster. Shimmering outlines in the glow ahead remind me of friends and lovers I’ve long forgotten. I hurry forward. And yet—should I not look back one more time? Have I perhaps left something unfinished?

And how!

Idreana!

In all these corridors, behind the countless doors, I still haven’t found her! I turn around, even though it’s difficult, back toward the beginning of the tunnel. The alluring, shimmering light behind me fades, and I can sense the disappointment of those waiting for me there.

I’m sorry.
But I gave her my word!

♫ Why I Do What I Do When I’m Done ♫

90/398

I enter the corridor—my mirror-self, a forest. I walk past the many doors—my mirror-self observes a woodpecker. I cautiously press down on a door handle, but the door is locked—my mirror-self runs his hand along the bark of an oak. I scratch where my nose itches under the stocking mask—my mirror-self listens to the rustling of leaves in the light breeze blowing through the treetops. I hide behind a shoulder-high plant in the corridor as a door opens, a bureaucrat steps out, opens a window, and lights a cigarette—my mirror-self hears footsteps approaching. I sneak past the smoker and slip through the open door into his empty office—my mirror-self takes his approaching lover into his arms. I plant the explosive device under the desk and set the timer for two minutes—my mirror-self finds a soft bed of moss for himself and his Eandria.

♫ Tjotjog ♫

96/398

I enter the corridor, a bouquet of flowers in hand. I spend ten minutes waving them at the institute’s webcam (which is actually aimed at the coffee machine). The camera only broadcasts an image to the world six times an hour, and unfortunately, it doesn’t indicate when. But I’m determined to be in the shot. I start off smiling, but after just a few minutes, I feel like I’m merely wearing a grimace. (I cannot confirm that a forced smile is physiologically supposed to induce feelings of happiness.)

Anyway, all that matters is that this way—two continents away—you receive my promised little Valentine’s greeting right on time.

♫ Kein Orm ♫

107/398

“I enter the corridor” is written at the top of my notebook. Everyone else is writing diligently. I stare at my scrawled letters. Ana comes to my desk. She’s our German teacher and wants us to call her by her first name, but I prefer “Ms. Ried.” Actually, I’d rather say nothing at all, especially when she’s so close that I can smell her – that fresh apple scent makes me feel strange, and my mouth goes all dry.

“Let your creativity run wild, just write whatever comes to your mind,” she encourages me. I keep staring at my notebook because I know if I look at her, weird things will happen. I’ll turn all red, and I’ll probably start to stutter or something.

“Come on now! ‘I enter the corridor.’ And then just continue with whatever comes to your mind.”

I put the pen to paper. It trembles. Hopefully, she doesn’t notice. I start to write. Ms. Ried turns away. I write and write. Always the same, always the same sentence.

“I enter the corridor. I enter the corridor. I enter the corridor. I enter the corridor. I enter the corridor…”

♫ Mjúk viðkoma ♫

124/398

I enter the corridor, this one I’ve walked down so many times in recent weeks. Behind that white door over there, you lie, with a machine aiding your breathing. Sudden brain hemorrhages sent you into a coma within hours, and the doctors say too much damage has been done to your brain to hope that one day you’ll wake up and be the same again.

I hold your hand. The heart-lung machine’s bubbling and hissing have become oddly calming and meditative—but only since I let go of my protest against all of this, my anger, my bewilderment, my despair, and my hope for a miracle.

When we’re alone, I quietly reminisce about our shared experiences, the trips we took, the movies we saw, parties, seminars, and meetings with friends—or just little quirky everyday anecdotes that come to mind. Sometimes, I also play your favorite music on the small cassette recorder.

People suffer and die all over the world—constantly. Why does it hurt me so much to see you lying here while I’m indifferent to everyone else? Almost inaudibly, I ask you the question, imagining you could speak to me, and you say: I’m not suffering – you are.

And then, for a few moments, a few heart-lung machine breaths, it’s as if you’re holding my hand and offering me comfort, courage, and hope through your silent presence.

Today, they’re turning off the machines, and you’ll be transferred to a hospice. I’ve chosen a small, cozy room for you: through the window, you can see trees, and you can hear the birds sing, even though it’s in the middle of the city.

You’re going to like it.

And if you no longer want to stay, you can leave. I still hold your hand, but I’m no longer keeping you here.

♫ Sage in a Gilded Cage ♫

129/398

I enter the corridor of the dollhouse to make my way to the kitchen. The utensils there are comically oversized, but I don’t want to completely abandon civility. Rather than shoveling my food into my mouth, I prepare it to the best of my ability. If I already look like an uncivilized forest dweller, I want to maintain at least some dignity internally and in my daily actions.

Because ever since my courtesan bewitched me with a voodoo spell and shrunk me to the size of a thumb, I am completely at the mercy of her adolescent daughter. She sees me as a toy and, for her amusement, forces me to perform all kinds of tricks. Although I unroll the poster I painted with the word “Hunger” almost daily and let it hang from the bedroom over the partially open entrance hall, she only occasionally thinks about putting a lettuce leaf or a slice of fruit in the vestibule for me.

Worse than the daughter though is the mother, who sometimes secretly takes me at night and lies with me in bed. Despite her grotesque gigantism, it almost feels like before, except now she forces me to crawl over her naked body and pluck out all the unwanted hairs sprouting from it. For me, it means laborious foot marches and hard work. It’s even more humiliating as she’s using me to make her more desirable for her new lover, while for me, no knife is sharp enough to shave or even trim the now matted mane that reaches down to my knees.