Death is a cheap coin. You could spend it four hundred times here and still not buy the truth.
There is no door at the end of the corridor. There is no path beyond the door. At the end of the path is another you, dressed in an orange prison uniform, asking: How much do you remember this time?
Stop counting.
That voice has been waiting since before you were born.
Waiting for an answer. Waiting for a name. Waiting for someone who can make it out alive the first time.
Or waiting for someone who, after seeing that face, still dares to reach out a hand.
