A young woman strolls down the street. She arrives at her building, where several men are gathered, waiting. The woman retrieves a key and unlocks the entrance door. One by one, the men step inside. She follows suit.
This isn’t the beginning of a film. Nor the conclusion of a dream. It’s not a daydream. Rather, it’s a question. How shall I respond? Do I even wish to respond? Who posed it? And why was it directed at me? Or perhaps it wasn’t? What will transpire if I choose not to answer? Or if I do?
Along the same street, a man strolls. His age is unclear. He reaches the same building, extracts a key, and unlocks the entrance door. He slips inside and shuts the door behind him.
What is this? A reply? Or another inquiry? Or maybe an extension of the prior one? What is my involvement?
A police car hurtles down the street, sirens blaring, tailed by an ambulance. They halt in front of the aforementioned building. The entrance door stands ajar.
What has transpired now? Did I answer the question? Was there even a question to begin with? Or do the questions persist? What course of action should I take?
Christmas draws near. Streets and display windows are adorned fittingly. People bustle in and out of shops, carrying an array of items. Yet no one is standing in front of the building’s entrance. No one is approaching either. Darkness prevails. Darkness prevails.