Familiarity The musty, flickered appearance of the lift.
16 steps, each marked with time. Marks instantly recognisable.
The dusty, freshly painted light, emitting twenty watts.
Faded yellowed key and rusted lock cold, like all things current, it met and seamed.
A crow, life not so recent landed on the crusted perch. It stared with eyes glittering of nothing significant. It meant nothing to me. It flew away, Metaphorical maybe on other days, not today.
Emamated resonantly, sounds, the sound of a twitch and thunder.
The air unmoving and equally forgiving.
Three more steps, each a recognisable flicker everytime, now no different, always brief, the slightest register.
The hollowed mat, the inscrutable lines on concrete, or wood feel cold. Cold is good, it means I'm home.
Then
I stub my toe.
Screw Familirity.