He was frightened of his door. It shut him in, shut others out. It blocked his sight. It clicks shut, it has a voice. It became part of the room. It hides from him, tried to blend in with the walls. But, like a person trying to push into a queue, the door disrupts its surroundings. Its low eye stares into his privacy. His coat has hanged itself. The unrecognisable form hangs dripping, on the door. The door holds it up like a dead rabbit. The window, the timid, frightened window, peeks from behind the curtains, not daring to breathe. The curtains, like an over- protecting mother, get in front of the cowering window, shielding it from the door's evil knowledge of the house. The promiscuous goings on in the house below. The wicked, piercing light hangs manically from the wise ceiling, screaming its shrieking white lightning. The brave shades does battle with the light's biting rays, but to no avail. The blind chair sits under the chattering desk. It says nothing to no-one. It has a purpose, granted, but it says nothing. It knows a thing or two, but doesn't let on. All the wardrobe does is eat. Swallow clothes. All day. But even the wise ceiling fears the one thing, the single, solitary thing that stands against the wall. Even the dormant door fears the mocking, mimicking mirror. It shows things as they really are. Shows the real truth. Brings out the harsh truths and forms. If you destroy the mirror, it will destroy you, its ghost will haunt you for seven hot summers. It will maim you if you try to meddle with it. Everyone fears the mirror. He fears the mirror. He fears his room as he stares at its night forms, as he brings the covers over his face. He cannot bear to look. 4/89.