Maybe it is like walking down a corridor. A corridor that seems endless. Doors on both sides. A fluffy carpet beneath your feet and fancy looking lamps above your head. The corridor is not broad enough to walk anywhere else than exactly in the middle of it. And so you do. You go on and on. And if you ever want to get anywhere, you have to decide, not only how far to go, but also which door to open. They all look the same with their golden handles and thei dark wood complexion. You pass the lights, the doors, the years maybe. Left or right? This one or the next? You wish they would carry numbers, so you could choose you favourite. But they all look the same. Undistinguishable, neither inviting nor decidedly off-putting. And you walk. Hoping somebody will come out of one of these doors. Pull you in maybe. So one day you can climb stairs and run along beaches, instead of walking the line.