She is afraid that her life is dwindling into an endless succession of excuses, justifications, evasions, diminutions, failures. She sees before her an endless corridor, with each door locked by her own hand. She cannot understand why this is so, after such struggle! Surely she should have learnt something by now?
Now she listens to the monotone of a fly bumping a grimy window, condemned to an eternity of proving that one and one equals two. No matter how many times the proof is made, it will always appear to be another equation altogether. A transcendent laughter buffets her ears.
Of course, if she is smart she will eschew proofs. But her punishment will nevertheless be exactly the same.
She was always too proud for her own good. And the window is shutting already. A storm is coming this way, and she has forgotten that the corridor leads into a garden, where raindrops will fall on the dust with a hot, chemical smell that belongs to all the summers of her childhood.