A half painted oak door, red on the top and sanded yellow towards the bottom. Smell of turpentine, wood polish, new carpet, a hairy dog, that smell all women add to rooms, something on the stove tea?, books in piles steaming like manure, beyond all this, the smell of your moony loneliness.

Goddamn it! I can't seem to file the lines of this poem just right, just enough to pick this lock, and to come crashing through the door!