Suite doors are set back

Suite doors are set back into deep niches. Master key opens the door. No faintly melancholy sunlight I assume is drooped about the city today but a wall of furniture packing the throat of the doors like the most ordered vomit of wooden and upholstered geometry sheared by guillotine in the paralyzed instant of disgorging. As flat of a thing as could be built of irregular things, it must have amassed from inside using the door like a mold. I do this job alone. The first piece I dislodged was an upended cherry-colored coffee table, worn tabletop first. Loveseat cushions with a strip’d pattern were packed between the legs of another table nested the opposite direction back out to the atrium. Even suites only have one coffee table. I set the table aright on the floor of the ambulatory and blocked most of its width. I pushed it a bit further down the walk for some space to work. I squinted at the sculpture in the door and it was black. No dust caught sun secreting through. When the furnishing stacked above the guardrail in the ambulatory I moved to the opposite side for my bone pile. I was three feet into the room. I stood in that space and pulled the doors shut behind me and it was silver. The heavy whip stitching on my shoes was visible from light beneath the doors, nothing else. Shielded from the atrium seashell sound my breathing was overwhelming. I drew in deep and exhaled slowly, quietly.



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