transmission
the corridor speaks
there is a corridor that connects every building you have ever entered. you cannot find it on blueprints because it exists in the architecture of attention — the path your eyes trace when entering a room, the route your mind takes through memory when someone says the word "home."
this corridor has no walls in the conventional sense. its boundaries are defined by the edges of peripheral vision, by the limits of what you can hold in focus before meaning blurs. walk its length and you will pass through every doorway simultaneously. the doors do not open; they were never closed.
at the far end, if there is an end, the light changes quality. it becomes the color of old photographs — not sepia, exactly, but the particular amber of light that has been stored too long and has begun to ferment. in this light, distances collapse. the corridor becomes a room becomes a field becomes a corridor again.