The iron gate is cold. It bites into your palm. You remember the frost. The weight of the rifle. The silence. You are in the corridor. The carpet is red. It is old. It is thick. It swallows your boots. You walk. The walls are tall. The windows are high. They are barred. Light comes in. It is grey. It is thin. It cuts the dust. You are a guard. You are a man. You are the law. Or you think you are. The building breathes. It is a palace. It is a prison. It is a machine. Gears turn in the dark. Steam hisses. The air smells of coal. It smells of sweat. It smells of fear. You hold your post. You watch the door. The door is oak. It is heavy. It has no handle on this side. Only a slot. A letter slot. You wait. The clock ticks. One. Two. Three. The world outside is loud. The world inside is quiet. You are the wall. You are the stone. You are the lock.

A knock. Three times. Sharp. Precise. You do not move. You do not blink. Your eyes are dry. Your heart is slow. The knock comes again. You know who it is. You have known for days. You have felt him. A shadow. A whisper. A mistake. The man who wrote the letter. The man who said the truth. The truth is a fire. It burns the paper. It burns the lies. It burns the men who hold the power. You are one of the men. Or you were. The uniform fits tight. The brass buttons are cold. They dig into your chest. You feel the weight of the badge. It is heavy. It is gold. It is a noose.

The slot opens. A shadow falls. A hand appears. It is pale. It is thin. It holds a paper. It is folded. It is small. It is white. It is innocent. It is a bomb. You take it. Your fingers tremble. You do not read it. You know what it says. You have read it in your dreams. You have seen the words. They are red. They are black. They are blood. They are ink. They are death. You fold the paper. You put it in your pocket. You close the slot. The sound is final. The sound is a click. The sound is a bone breaking.

The man is there. You see his face. It is in the gap. It is hollow. It is tired. It is young. It is old. It is you. It is the mirror. You look at him. He looks at you. There is no hate. There is no fear. There is only recognition. He is the one who saw. He is the one who spoke. He is the one who failed. You failed. The system failed. The machine ground him down. It will grind you down. The iron gate is cold. The carpet is red. The light is grey. You are the wall. You are the stone. You are the lock.

A voice speaks. It is behind you. It is loud. It is clear. It is the voice of the superior. The voice of the law. The voice of the state. "Guard." It is a command. It is a question. It is a threat. You turn. You see him. He is tall. He is clean. He is white. His coat is pristine. His face is smooth. His eyes are hard. They are empty. They see nothing. They see everything. They see the flaw. They see the crack. They see you.

"You have a letter," he says. It is not a question. It is a fact. It is a charge. Your hand goes to your pocket. Your hand is heavy. Your hand is slow. You pull the paper out. It is white. It is small. It is dead. You hold it out. You do not offer it. You surrender it. The motion is slow. The motion is final. The iron gate is cold. The carpet is red. The light is grey.

He takes it. His fingers are long. His fingers are clean. He opens it. He reads. He does not frown. He does not smile. His face does not change. The air does not change. The clock ticks. One. Two. Three. He folds the paper. He puts it in his pocket. He looks at you. He looks at the man in the slot. The man is gone. The slot is closed. The shadow is gone. The light is grey.

"You are relieved," he says. His voice is soft. His voice is kind. It is a knife. It is a blade. It is a silence. You nod. You do not speak. You cannot speak. Your throat is dry. Your throat is tight. Your throat is broken. You step back. You step aside. You make room. You are the wall. You are the stone. You are the lock.

The superior walks away. His boots click. The sound is sharp. The sound is clean. The sound is the end. You watch him go. You watch the door close. You watch the lock turn. The sound is a click. The sound is a bone breaking. You are alone. The corridor is long. The walls are tall. The windows are high. The light is grey. The air is still. The dust hangs. It is still. It is dead. It is waiting.

You sit down. You sit on the floor. The carpet is soft. The carpet is red. It is blood. It is life. It is memory. You close your eyes. You see the man. You see the letter. You see the words. They are red. They are black. They are blood. They are ink. They are death. You see the superior. You see his face. You see his eyes. They are empty. They are hard. They are the machine. You are the machine. You are the gear. You are the tooth. You are the rust.

The dream ends. You wake. The room is dark. The room is small. The room is cold. The sheets are damp. The air is stale. You are in a cell. You are in a prison. You are in the palace. The walls are stone. The floor is stone. The air is stone. You are the stone. You are the lock. You are the wall.

A light comes on. It is bright. It is white. It is harsh. It burns your eyes. You blink. You see the guard. He is there. He is the superior. He is the law. He is the state. He holds a paper. He holds a letter. He holds your fate. He reads it. He looks at you. He does not speak. He does not move. He is the wall. He is the stone. He is the lock.

The light is grey. The air is cold. The silence is loud. The silence is heavy. The silence is death. You wait. You wait for the end. You wait for the fire. You wait for the rain. You wait for the snow. You wait for the ice. You wait for the stone. You are the stone. You are the lock. You are the wall.

The door opens. The door is oak. The door is heavy. The door is a mouth. It swallows the light. It swallows the sound. It swallows the air. You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your legs are numb. Your legs are dead. You walk. You walk toward the door. You walk toward the end. You walk toward the truth. The truth is a fire. The truth is a blade. The truth is a silence.

You step out. The corridor is long. The walls are tall. The windows are high. The light is grey. The air is cold. The dust hangs. The dust is dead. The dust is waiting. You walk. You walk. You walk. The end is near. The end is here. The end is you. The end is me. The end is us. The end is the stone. The end is the lock. The end is the wall.

The iron gate is cold. It bites into your palm. You remember the frost. The weight of the rifle. The silence. You are in the corridor. The carpet is red. It is old. It is thick. It swallows your boots. You walk. The walls are tall. The windows are high. They are barred. Light comes in. It is grey. It is thin. It cuts the dust. You are a guard. You are a man. You are the law. Or you think you are. The building breathes. It is a palace. It is a prison. It is a machine. Gears turn in the dark. Steam hisses. The air smells of coal. It smells of sweat. It smells of fear. You hold your post. You watch the door. The door is oak. It is heavy. It has no handle on this side. Only a slot. A letter slot. You wait. The clock ticks. One. Two. Three. The world outside is loud. The world inside is quiet. You are the wall. You are the stone. You are the lock.

A knock. Three times. Sharp. Precise. You do not move. You do not blink. Your eyes are dry. Your heart is slow. The knock comes again. You know who it is. You have known for days. You have felt him. A shadow. A whisper. A mistake. The man who wrote the letter. The man who said the truth. The truth is a fire. It burns the paper. It burns the lies. It burns the men who hold the power. You are one of the men. Or you were. The uniform fits tight. The brass buttons are cold. They dig into your chest. You feel the weight of the badge. It is heavy. It is gold. It is a noose.

The slot opens. A shadow falls. A hand appears. It is pale. It is thin. It holds a paper. It is folded. It is small. It is white. It is innocent. It is a bomb. You take it. Your fingers tremble. You do not read it. You know what it says. You have read it in your dreams. You have seen the words. They are red. They are black. They are blood. They are ink. They are death. You fold the paper. You put it in your pocket. You close the slot. The sound is final. The sound is a click. The sound is a bone breaking.

The man is there. You see his face. It is in the gap. It is hollow. It is tired. It is young. It is old. It is you. It is the mirror. You look at him. He looks at you. There is no hate. There is no fear. There is only recognition. He is the one who saw. He is the one who spoke. He is the one who failed. You failed. The system failed. The machine ground him down. It will grind you down. The iron gate is cold. The carpet is red. The light is grey. You are the wall. You are the stone. You are the lock.

A voice speaks. It is behind you. It is loud. It is clear. It is the voice of the superior. The voice of the law. The voice of the state. "Guard." It is a command. It is a question. It is a threat. You turn. You see him. He is tall. He is clean. He is white. His coat is pristine. His face is smooth. His eyes are hard. They are empty. They see nothing. They see everything. They see the flaw. They see the crack. They see you.

"You have a letter," he says. It is not a question. It is a fact. It is a charge. Your hand goes to your pocket. Your hand is heavy. Your hand is slow. You pull the paper out. It is white. It is small. It is dead. You hold it out. You do not offer it. You surrender it. The motion is slow. The motion is final. The iron gate is cold. The carpet is red. The light is grey.

He takes it. His fingers are long. His fingers are clean. He opens it. He reads. He does not frown. He does not smile. His face does not change. The air does not change. The clock ticks. One. Two. Three. He folds the paper. He puts it in his pocket. He looks at you. He looks at the man in the slot. The man is gone. The slot is closed. The shadow is gone. The light is grey.

"You are relieved," he says. His voice is soft. His voice is kind. It is a knife. It is a blade. It is a silence. You nod. You do not speak. You cannot speak. Your throat is dry. Your throat is tight. Your throat is broken. You step back. You step aside. You make room. You are the wall. You are the stone. You are the lock.

The superior walks away. His boots click. The sound is sharp. The sound is clean. The sound is the end. You watch him go. You watch the door close. You watch the lock turn. The sound is a click. The sound is a bone breaking. You are alone. The corridor is long. The walls are tall. The windows are high. The light is grey. The air is still. The dust hangs. It is still. It is dead. It is waiting.

You sit down. You sit on the floor. The carpet is soft. The carpet is red. It is blood. It is life. It is memory. You close your eyes. You see the man. You see the letter. You see the words. They are red. They are black. They are blood. They are ink. They are death. You see the superior. You see his face. You see his eyes. They are empty. They are hard. They are the machine. You are the machine. You are the gear. You are the tooth. You are the rust.

The dream ends. You wake. The room is dark. The room is small. The room is cold. The sheets are damp. The air is stale. You are in a cell. You are in a prison. You are in the palace. The walls are stone. The floor is stone. The air is stone. You are the stone. You are the lock. You are the wall.

A light comes on. It is bright. It is white. It is harsh. It burns your eyes. You blink. You see the guard. He is there. He is the superior. He is the law. He is the state. He holds a paper. He holds a letter. He holds your fate. He reads it. He looks at you. He does not speak. He does not move. He is the wall. He is the stone. He is the lock.

The light is grey. The air is cold. The silence is loud. The silence is heavy. The silence is death. You wait. You wait for the end. You wait for the fire. You wait for the rain. You wait for the snow. You wait for the ice. You wait for the stone. You are the stone. You are the lock. You are the wall.

The door opens. The door is oak. The door is heavy. The door is a mouth. It swallows the light. It swallows the sound. It swallows the air. You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your legs are numb. Your legs are dead. You walk. You walk toward the door. You walk toward the end. You walk toward the truth. The truth is a fire. The truth is a blade. The truth is a silence.

You step out. The corridor is long. The walls are tall. The windows are high. The light is grey. The air is cold. The dust hangs. The dust is dead. The dust is waiting. You walk. You walk. You walk. The end is near. The end is here. The end is you. The end is me. The end is us. The end is the stone. The end is the lock. The end is the wall.