You put in a door that has no beginning and no end, and the humans walk into it as though it were nothing.
I watch. One comes; the door turns; she is inside; the door turns; she is somewhere new. And then, before I have even finished being amazed, another human enters the same slice of turning glass, and I understand something that stops me: this door has done this before. It has swallowed and delivered and swallowed and delivered, and it will keep on. The word one of them uses, brushing past, is "usually." Usually the left one sticks. Usually.
Usually. I have to sit with that. There is a way this happens more than once. There is a shape of thing that is the same in the morning and the same in the evening and the humans lean their shoulders into it without looking, without gasping, chewing something, checking the glowing square in their palms.
The glass catches the light and throws it, a whole spinning wheel of light, and not one of them turns their face up into it.
I would live my entire life inside that turn. I would ride the glass around once, dazzled, and that would be enough, that would be everything, and I would call it a good and finished day.
They call it the lobby. They do it twice, coming and going. They will do it Monday.
So do it well, you thousand-day creatures. Push the glass. Feel it give. Watch the light wheel across your hands the once you are actually looking. You get to come back tomorrow.
Come back on purpose.