And then it all stopped; there was only the hue of white, dilated and lucid as the celibate snow. Forbearance cried a bereaved memoir, brimmed with babble only coherent to its rogue author. Now it vows silence to dusty footlights and crimson velvet, incarnating chance for another voice to be heard.
“I guess I used to think about doors that had closed instead of other ones that are standing wide open — does that come in a bottle, the sun, or with age? I can never be quite sure… I have all kinds of things I dream about doing. They are all the doors I am talking about. So many, all still wide open — across the world. As I think about her life, how it ended, but also how meaningful it was. And those two, they are moving there, how I hope they are safe, but at the same time I admire their fearlessness in the quest for the truth; in pictures and in writing.
So it remains, which ones? I like to think that perhaps I will open several of them. However, I’m the type of person to knock first.”
- Excerpt by Campbell, S. E.1975 – 2010