Hallway towards a window

Shoulders make them seem older in rough fabric coats bobbing browns and hat.  Dripping squeaking shoes a film of slime on every industrial floor tile.  There are no branches in this hallway, but when people turn off it seems like that in the movement of the ocean, like levees could be island oases in the way the sea water moves.  Speckled and musty shoulders, pushing forward toward some beyond and in headed goal.  The hallways is prismic- a perfect square at each end.  I came in the hot blooded torrent from a metal barred door with chipping paint.  Before us is a window.  Here is my turning- says one young lady in embroidered jeans.  She'll never see out it.  I have places to go.  I'll never see out it.  I have places to go. 

-Citron