If I close my eyes when it rises up and burns the roof of my heart, I’ll find myself in that room, that white room which is the canvas and subtle mirror of my abyss. And in that terrible whiteness without doors, without the sun or light of any kind, I realise that my hands are sticky. And in these sticky hands, I hold a knife covered in what feels and smells like tar. WHERE IS THE DOOR!? WHERE IS IT!?
The 4th Dimension 