Prologue
This place feels less like home every day. It has no soul. It's memories are someone else's; it may as well be any other place. Without those memories, it’s a poor approximation of what I once called home.
This place feels more like a cell every day. Dark, damp, without exit. A cycle of forgettable yins and gargantuan yans, it all comes together to amount to black. A life lived with eyes closed under a thick bedsheet behind a closed door.
There’s darkness here.
There's comfort here.