a continuation of PP.

this carrys straight on:

I walked on, followed by the melancholy harmony of Evelin’s quiet sobs and Grimiver’s broken groans. Annoyance visited fleetingly my mind as I found my heart uncharacteristically bleeding for them. But only for a second as I wandered aimlessly on down the halls allowing my mind free reign over ever whimsical thought that flirted with my current fancies. I listened to the nothing between my footsteps and watching the dust float fae-like, around the candles. Dancing in the warm currents above and sinking low only to be burnt up in the awaiting and indifferent inferno. You often find that it is when you are walking with no aim that you stumble on you destiny. Such is the infallible irony of life. Or so the literature has told me, and as a result it came as no surprise that rounding the corner casting long shadows in my wake I found the door. There is no question as to the significance of doors. For all the wonders in the world are guarded by them in one form or another. Secrets are kept behind locked doors, happiness through open ones, love and hate are standing waiting for their cue just behind that door, The theatre is kept behind doors.
There have only been two doors in my life. The door that began my first breath and the door leading me to the wings of this stage. And now it had become three.
The door to Casper’s room was the burgundy red of a playful wine when held up to the fading light. The red that congers images of lips and breasts and blood that boils in rage and ecstasy. The dark heavy red of the velvet curtains circling the stage, woven with as much mystery as fabric and as much love as colour. Almost a brown in the tainted light of the passageway but unmistakably red. The door itself was small the panels delicate but plain. the paint flaked at each ridge and edge so the décor itself was framed with the light brown of the tired wood beneath. Small flecks of the paint were peeling off but I didn’t dare touch them. It seemed almost blasphemous to alter even the tiniest part of this entrance. I felt as if I was standing before times greatest creation. The door knob was a dead gold, and could be no longer called a circle so battered was it with use. It reflected the light lazily and half-heartedly back at me the many dips and dents and scratches brought into sharp dark contrast with the dun shine.
I thought of the thousands of hands turning it just that trivial fraction to the left that would allow them enter to a place I had only ever dared to think about dreaming. And because all the world is a stage, and because we are but merry actors, and because there was nothing else I could do but open this door, I did so. It felt warm in my hand and turning it was stiff. The locks mechanical parts were rusted and I heard them slide against each other