Finally.
It's quiet and secluded here. Sequestered from the festivals and rituals.
Entrance.
Rusted halls surround you. Your muffled footsteps and gentle creaking, your quiet breath, and idle ambience. There's something you can't remember to remember.
You entwine with the corridors. Touch.
Feel.
Isn't it so wonderful here?
Isn't it domestic here?
Isn't it completely edgeless and devoid of straight lines here?
Ever since you started feeling so out of place in the world, since things became so wrong, like some cool yellow haze.
Like a child woven into the mud. Weaned not on milk. Destitute of relatability. There's something you can't remember to remember.
Belonging is a dull dream. A sugary opiate.
Drawn up inside, withdrawn from people who don't seem so much like the people you learned to live with.
When did it all change?
When were you left behind?
Corrugated steel and decrepit tiles embrace you. It does for you what the sphere does for others. There's something you can't remember to remember.
Suddenly, a cabinet. And a dresser. It's warm and damp here, slathered with the feeling of company. There are dents and torn sheets of corrugated steel, but you feel at peace here regardless. It's quiet, it's simple. It's away.
Inhale.
Exhale.
There's a bulky envelope resting on the cabinet. Beside it is a vintage recorder with a cassette still inside.
There's something you can't remember to remember.
