Déjà vu

A thread of dust floats in the air; it is the only one. Faint light reflects white walls on the shiny, solid gray floor. Sometimes it’s a bit blue, not always; the light source is broken and it flickers back and forth, from light to darkness, slowly drifting between colors. It is before us, a long corridor, with only walls, one solid floor and a ceiling; with only bad lit walls. From time to time few things emerge from darkness; see the door, one of two. This one is well lit, with a small light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The shadow flows down, dangling about the wall, coming from the ceiling. The light source flickers no more; the marble has a dead glow; the corridor is still; the thread of dust levitates in the warm air, rotating randomly. It stops. Slowly it moves again, faster and faster, diving toward the floor; it touches it while standing still. Apparently the draft stopped when the key was inserted into the door lock. With a gentle click it starts to turn and twist, violently screeching in the steel lock. The key is removed and the door is ready to open. The dust thread crawls on the solid floor, away from the door, and closer to the other. It opens. It busts open and it smashes against the wall, remaining open beside the white wonderful wall. A dust thread is what is once again in the air, carried by the powerful draft. It floats in the same position as before, it twists and turns; it is no longer alone. He enters with pressing noise and walks the corridor to reach the other door, the one still locked. He enters with loud black shiny shoe steps, and with him, many other dust threads. He is a man in a dark suit, white red striped shirt and a red plain looking tie, with no stripes. He enters, walks and stops two centimeters from the dust thread, which now is just standing in mid air near his right eye. He blinks, turns back and closes the door. The walk in the rectangular corridor continues; the stroboscopic light of the unknown light source is going on and off, randomly showing one end of the small tunnel. Hid deformed shadow (at the meeting point of the wall and the floor) comes and goes moving as he does, always blinking from and into its existence. The rhythm of the steps and their echo make the air vibrate. The warm air is now all between the door and the man, for he has stopped, near the second door (the locked one). A hand stretches a key. The sleeve is garbled where the elbow is; it makes some noise as the arm turns the key in the lock; the tie shifts its position leaning in one side. The noise stops, and the sounds of the other side are now growing. It rains. Left as it was, the key moves with the door as it opens. The key stops not far from the wall as does the door, leaving the cold air to replace the warm atmosphere from inside. It was raining for some time now, striking down from heaven with small drops of crystal clear water. The suit was getting wet as the rapid steps followed each other, all heading toward a black car across the street. He stops before opening the car door and looks up. Behind, left as it was, the corridor shined away all the light from outside. The light bulbs have shorted out and only the moon lit sky made some features visible; it was long, as all worthy corridors are. The car disappeared into the dark rainy night. A dust thread flies in the air, dodging rain drops, carried away by gentle cold wind.