.It's a corridor connecting two parts of a life. A path strewn with ash, a narrow passage in which you can't straighten up, though at first you can't see the ceiling — black with soot.

You don't know how long it will go on, you only guess: some considerable time yet. Sometimes the walls close in enough that you leave parts of yourself on them; sometimes you have to crawl on all fours.

It has two ends and you can always crawl back. Apart from ash in your hair and a general batteredness, nothing will give away the failure.

There's no light in the ashen passage besides your own fire, and there's not much to look at anyway, but you burn down slowly regardless, leaving weightless dust behind you.

One day it will end, and there, on the other side, everything will be there. Maybe not the way you imagine it, but definitely better than inside.