Ziggy was not by any reasonable measure a happy person. To call his life a veil of sadness would have been unfair - Ziggy's years had been marked by no great tragedies, no torments or abuses to bear on his mind and occupy his thoughts. But his few real successes were minor and brief, punctuated by the sort of tedium and regularity he wasn't nearly old enough to prefer. It would be cliche to say that something was missing in his life, something elusive and indefinable, but the fact remained that something was. Without knowing it, Ziggy returned to his empty flat for the five thousandth, six thousandth, seven thousandth time.
On the seven thousand and first afternoon in his home Ziggy stood in his drab doorway, an emotional flatline. Pausing only for one neutral, deep sigh, he answered his calls, restocked the birdfeeder, ate dinner, did his crossword and went to bed.
The next morning, routine save for the occurrence of a full-scale housecleaning, Ziggy found the Door.
It stood obscured behind the piles upon piles of long-unlistened LPs, Time Magazines and yellowed newspapers in his basement. Ziggy had purchased his home empty, and having lived in it for nearly twenty years had a fair idea of its layout. This peculiar entryway, marked with the equally peculiar label "VOID," did not belong. And yet this accident had a certain inevitability, the feeling of a moment earned. Ziggy turned the black doorknob, turned to survey the home he knew he was leaving for good, took a deep breath, and went inside.
Ziggy wandered for a long time.
Image credit DailyGalaxy.com, original artist unattributed
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