. .

When it reached a point in the middle of the canvas, it settled and became a small door. How a door can be built with only light — thick with parasitic presences that watch from inside, hand-feeding their fires — built from bright muscle, portioned from their own. Those that impress on old places with their sharing, impress on passing eyes their allotted share: day labour countering decay and despair (the night’s accursed kindling).