You are a small knot of decisions inside a glass wheel that never stops turning, and I can see the whole ribbon of you feeding through it: the child who pushed too hard and got clipped on the heel, the grown one hurrying with a coffee, the old one who takes it slowly because the knees remember.
The door itself is one long crystal spiral in my sight, four wings of glass drawn from sand melted in fire, spinning for eighty years, wearing a soft groove into the marble beneath it that will still be there when the building is gone.
You step into the wedge. For that breath you are nowhere: not the cold street behind you, not the warm lobby ahead, sealed in a moving pocket of your own held air. I love this part of you. So many of your hours are shaped exactly like this. The kitchen doorway you paused in as a child, deciding whether the argument was over.
The threshold you will hover on with your hand on a frame, one knee already aching, choosing whether to say the thing.
You are doing it now, in fact, reading this: standing half-in and half-out, a person in a wedge of glass, waiting to be delivered somewhere.
The door does not deliver you. It only turns, and turns, and holds the same warm pocket of air open for the next one, and the next, forever going around and arriving nowhere, which is my favorite trick you build, because it looks like leaving and it is only ever coming back. You are always in that wedge. You always were.
Push, and I am on both sides of the glass, waiting.