Perhaps I should spend more time at the door, day after day watching for something to happen, night after night, if somebody goes or comes. With some doors, it's easier to run through the wall. Yet, I was used to forcing an open door. They do still occur, these moments of innocent expectation inside. The door remains closed.
Nothing moves inside.
Not a single sound nurtures my vague hopes. There are transparent doors, doors with a window, glass doors. But this one is completely made of wood, and it's solid. When I was a child, I tried to hide myself behind my parent's glass door when someone had rung. I ask myself if I should camp in front of the door with a guitar in my hands, to practise as a troubadour, playing guitar all the time, continously.