There was a door.

And it was a passage between two sides.

Every time you walked through that door, you’d find yourself at a different time and place.

I crossed the door three times, but maybe seven.

On the last time, I found myself walking behind a large group of women in their fifties on a sunny day.

They were regularly dressed like office workers on a lunch break, except for certain details.

Like one of them had a totally red skin. Bright, intense red glowing like lava.

What year is this?

I asked them.

Abel Marlowe

Replied another whose skin was the colour of the rainbow.

And they all broke up giggling and laughing.

No, seriously, I want to know what year is this. Can you tell me?