þþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ ßÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ ßÛÛÛ Û²±Û ÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ ßÛÛ Û²±Û ßÛÛ Û²±ÛÛß ßÛ²±ÛÛß Û²±ÛÛß Û²±ÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ ÛÛÛ Û²±ÛÜ ÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ Û²±Û ÜÛÛ Û²±ÛÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ Û²±ÛÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ ÛÛÛ Û²±ÛÛÛÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ Û²±ÛÛÛÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ Û²±ÛÛ Û²ÛÛÛ ÜÛÛ Û²ÛÛÛ ÜÛÛÛ Û²ÛÛ ßÛÛ Û²ÛÛÛ ÜÛÛ Û²ÛÛÛÛÜ Û²ÛÛÛ ÜÛ Û²ÛÛÛ Û²ÛÛÛ ÜÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ þþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþ A Random Collage Of Thoughts Via A Random Cadre Of Rogues þþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþ The House Of Concrete You Will Never Leave You Will Never Want To þþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþþ I am in a strange place. I once thought this was Death. Perhaps; the endless static sky overhead and the skein of intertransposed thought do nothing to deny it. I am in the land that is juxtaposed between life and death. There is nothing but static. The heavens are static, the horizon is static. The very air around me is buzzing, hissing, black, white. Very strange indeed, for a newcomer like myself. The static clears, as might a television coming into tune. THE MIST I am on a plain, an endless sea of grey stone cement. Waves are frozen in mid-tide, cresting forever. There is a dusty cloud of mist in the distance. It is all I can see. So I walk towards the mist. After many days\seconds of walking (it is difficult to tell) the mist envelops me. Faces scream at me, laugh at me, seeming to emanate from the thick hazing fog. They dissipate like steam. Hands reach out for me, strong hands, whipcord-knotted and angry. They clutch at my clothing, yet they accomplish nothing. As per the faces, they fade quickly into nothing. Afterwards, the mist begins to form itself into a sensible pattern. I see many pictures. Words. Insights and emotions. I am fascinated. Disturbed. THE HOUSE OF CONCRETE In the very center of this mist is a house. A massive house, formed of concrete. Carved ornately and massively. Nothing more than a haunted house, a hall of horrors, at first investigation. Gargoyles leer from it's stories. There are hundreds and thousands of stories in this house, I may never explore them all. I walk up a dirt path onto the veranda, and look around. The front door is made of oak, and is huge. Hanging on the polished door is a platinum knocker. I lift the heavy device, and rap firmly on the door. FERAL, THE GUARDIAN OF THE HOUSE The door creaks open, slightly. I see no one. I hear something, however. A rushing sound, growing louder and louder from the bowels of the house. It builds to a crescendo until the door flings open violently and it explodes outwards. A streak of fangs and talons launch itself at me. Under the great brute strength of this beast, I am flung off the veranda and onto the loose dirt of the yard. I am trapped, pinned by the vicious paws of the Feral. "Who are you?" It snarls diabolically. "A lone wanderer. Solitary and lost." I respond weakly. My breath has been knocked from my lungs. "What do you want here?" It bares it's razor-blade teeth, each one eager to tear my flesh from my bones. "Well, er... I'm not really sure. It looked interesting." "What is the average flight-speed velocity of a laden swallow?" It's claws dig deeper into my chest in sadistic anticipation of the gory feast that lay within. "African or European?" Beat. The Feral looks slightly disappointed. "You've seen it, then. Right, off you go." And it slithers off, allowing me to stand and brush the dirt from my person. Reverently, under the hungry yet restrained glare of the passive Feral, I mount the steps and walk past the threshold into the interior of the House. LIVEWIRE'S ROOM But now I am in a large room that is apparently empty except for one horrifically massive electrical outlet covering one entire wall. It is white and pristine. I do not comprehend the significance of this. After a few moments of contemplation, I reach out and touch the outlet. This is a bad idea: It is a livewire. From out of the wall socket creeps a long sparkling beast, uttering intelligent inanities and spinning about my head. "Who are you?" I bemuse. But it keeps right on spinning, nary a word. Before long, I grow dizzy and try to escape, but a sequence of bizarre things happen. First, the livewire splits and leaps down all available bodily orifices, electrocuting me instantly. The second thing is that I leap into the next available universe, which happens to be exactly like the one I was in before except for that fact that there is a squashed fly in the wall next to the outlet now, where there hadn't been before. The livewire retreats to it's den once more. Thankful for the opportunity to escape, I dart out of the room and up another winding staircase, looking for some sense in this strange place. MEIJA'S AUDITORIUM At the top of the stairs lay an expansive room, filled with people of dubious nature thrashing around and the loud, rupturous sound of punk rock being pounded out of speakers strategically located around the room. At the far end of the room I see a surreal band on stage, apparently torturing their instruments. I almost recognize them: they seem to be spitting images of Rancid. Behind the stage, located in a depression between two gargantuan Marshall stacks, is positioned a demonically huge throne, upholstered in blood-red leather and garnished with ornate black spikes and iron-wrought crosshatch grids. Seated in this devil-chair is a giant mexican with a mohawk and and muscular build. Though I am on the far side of the room, he glimpses me and points at me. Suddenly, the music stops and all the people cease their slamdancing and turn to stare at me. For many minutes, the scene remains frozen like this. Just when it couldn't get any more unbearable, the crowd screams and begins to rush at me. I dive through the crowd and run, fearing for my life. I leap on stage and realize how truly massive this throne and it's bearer actually are. However, I have no time to ponder it, as the crowd is rapidly gaining on me. I pelt through a door betwixt the giant's legs and slammed it shut behind me. The sounds of the angry mob on the other side vanish instantly. THE LUPO ROOM The next room I came to was large and filled with meat and tomatos. There was a large blue butcher in the middle of the room. He was holding a very large and bloody butcher knife, and butchers tend to do, and wearing a pair of Converse sneakers. He threatened to kill me, so I left. NITNATSNOC'S ROOM As I wander the hallways, I notice strands of popular rock music fading in and out of the walls above my head. I decide to attempt to follow it and perhaps locate someone with a sense of direction. I have suddenly developed the overwhelming urge to escape this oppressive house. I turn the corner and open the only available door. Inside is a man of Japanese descent, with a large amount of hair, curiously and carefully coiffed into a style that would undoubtedly make the most immaculate Elvis impersonator quiver with repressed jealousy. He is reclined on a chesterfield. The exquisite sounds of Queen drift aimlessly through the room. The walls of the room are plastered, in some places two times over, with pictures of Freddie Mercury and the other various members of Queen, along with scenes from the Highlander movies and Flash Gordon. I cannot see the wallpaper underneath them. The floor is rife with chrome CDs and vinyl LPs and their respective cases or slipcovers, and the ceiling bears a massive chandelier. On closer inspection I see that each crystal of the chandellier is carved intricately in the image of what seems to be the venerable Freddie Mercury. I see a small brightly-costumed rodent perched in it. In addition, quite a few speakers are located at various points in corners, though the music resounding from them is tuned to a respectable and decent volume. Finally, there is a small Zoroasterian shrine in the corner, boasting two small round lumps of flesh upon an altar made of Vanilla Ice's skin. The man stands. He is composed and bears a friendly countenance. My heart leaps for joy, for here perhaps is the one sane person in the house, who will lead me to freedom! I fumble over my words in my exhilaration. "May I.. er.." "Brian. Brian May," the man quickly retorted. "You, erh, well... uhm.... You have a lot of Queen stuff here." He frowns. In the background, the rodent - which appears to be a gerbil - seems to fly down and settle itself in one of the larger shrines. "Yes, we suppose we do. We like Queen. We think they're the best band on earth." His face turns red. The music turns louder and becomes somewhat more frenzied. "You aren't implying that they AREN'T, are you? You aren't criticizing our taste in MUSIC, are you?" "No! Of course not! I was merely pointing out, well... I guess I was just assuming that you like them." The music jumps one or two volume notches. "We just said that we liked them! Are you trying to subtly suggest that we're stupid? Is that what you're trying to say? Do you think that we're a quivering moron because we appreciate the finer music in life?" "No! Not at-" "No? By disagreeing with us, are you attempting to tell us that our opinion means absolutely nothing to you? That our perspective is completely and utterly worthless? Are you denying that we are the champions? Do you really not believe us when we say that we will rock you?" By this time the music is quite loud and deafening. In exasperation, I shout, "Is there nothing I can say that you won't take offense to?" He thinks for a moment, looking considerably under pressure. For a moment it looks like he might have a sheer heart attack. Then he relaxes and the volume jumps down considerably. "Yes. You can relate how incredibly spiffy Queen is, confide in us how they changed your life through their touching and heartfelt music, and then begin to gibber and spout like a raving, obsessed maniac." "I'll do no such thing." I don't. Instead, I begin to leave. The Japanese Elvis impersonator resumes his listening experience on the chesterfield sofa, calmly and as if nothing had happened, while dreaming of fat bottomed girls. THE CAVE OF WHITE INSANITY I soon found myself walking down a doorless, uniform hallway. I can see no end in either direction, and soon find myself anxious and confused. I begin to run. After hours of this, the monotony breaks and the walls opened up into a bulbous white cave, festooned with stalactites and in the very center, an ancient carved pillar. On this pillar, raised about three feet from the ground, is a little wizened and shriveled gnome sitting cross-legged and looking very wise. His beard and hair hang well past the top of the pillar and reach for the floor of the cave. I am stricken immediately by the amazing lack of stature the wizened creature possesses... he seems withdrawn into the recesses of his gentle white gown. The little troll looks at me. "Come forth, O studious wanderer." At this point, I realize the wise little gnome is wearing tiny ear-bud headphones, connected to a cord that runs down and into the thick folds of his robe. I take a wary, respectful step forward. "What captivating and antedeluvian melodies a sage of your great sagacity and brilliance must muse upon!" I begin to grovel. Here is a being that clearly deserved the admiration and respect of all humanity. "O student, thou shalt hear the truth, and the truth shall be called Primus!" The words envelope my being. "Faith shall manifest itself in the making of shrines and the sacrificing of small woodland creatures to the Venerable Les Claypool!" I begin to tremble in spiritual ecstasy. "Now go forth, and do these things!" I start to hallucinate in holy joy. In my vision, I see the little wrinkled troll falling off his pillar and being impaled on an upright stalagmite. My vision ends abruptly. "You're crazy, little shriveled troll!" He looks thoughtful. "Quite true... I am Insanity, incarnate. And you are a ceramic gnome." He returns to the depths of his music, and I exit the cavern of White Insanity. CTHULU'S ROOM A draft pulls me along to the end of the hall, where a dark and mysteriously evil door both compels and revulses me. But compulsion eventually wins over, and I enter, pulling the black door shut behind me with an ominous and echoing boom. Inside, a nighttime fear-riddled darkness. I hear a strange song... 'Call Of Ktulu'. It is very loud. There are very out-of-place pan pipes in the background, mindlessly piping an insane, inhuman gibbering melody. Everytime the vocalist gets to the part that said 'Ktulu', a little tomato pops up from behind a chesterfield, shouts in an amusingly high-pitched yet darkly macabre voice, 'CTHULU!', and hops a little dance to the overpowering beat. I walk over to the little tomato. "And who are you, you curious little beast?" "I AM CTHULU." I am indeed skeptical of this innocent-looking little fruit. Though his attitude is ferocious enough, as he viciously bounces up and down in a maddening rhythm, the sight is simply too comical for me to take the claim seriously. "I fear I don't believe you." "Good," Appears a voice from somewhere behind my left shoulder. "Because I am Cthulhu." I turn and see a massive terrible monster, too hideous to describe in words... ground beef is the closest I can come. Carnivorous, cognizant ground beef. With tentacles for teeth. I shudder in fear and disgust. But all is not over. A black being with no face steps out from behind a molecule and I realize before he said a word that this is the True Blue Cthulu. In fact, they all are. They are all different incarnations of the same soul. And it suddenly gets too deep for me. So I leave. DIAMOND TRAVELLER AND HIS DIAMOND TRAVELLING MACHINE Outside the Room of Cthulu is not the hallway I expect, but instead a new room, seemingly made entirely out of carbon crystal. The walls sparkle and shine like sunbeams reflecting from the purest gem. At the center is an upright, enigmatic diamond device with a concave about the size of a man. As I examine it, without warning it begins to glow and the shape of a rumpled man appears in the center. Out steps a man completely garbed in a space travel suit. His face is completely obscured. He stands a few feet from me, saying nothing. His space suit is colorfully designed, with whorls and designs of the most animated nature. I attempt to speak to him, but receive no response. Eventually tiring of this futile exercise, I sigh and leave. The diamond traveller takes no notice. DOCTOR STRANGE'S ROOM Outside of the diamond traveller's room is a short hall with a reflective metal door at one end. As I approach this door, it suddenly flings open and an intensely odd individual bursts through. He is wearing all black underneath a stained and bloodied lab coat. He carries a large, well-polished axe. "NO! Carry the eight! Carry the eight!" He screams venomously, with a slight trace of a british accent, and begins to hack viciously at a small, innocent bust of Charles Babbage, sitting in the wall to my left. After about eighteen minutes of this vigorous activity, he ceases and notices me for the first time. The bust is by this time crushed finer than salt. He eyes me suspiciously. "Who the heck are you?" Before I can answer, he develops an angry tic and spits out, "You're not a SQUIRREL, are you?" "No-" He ignores my answer completely. "Because I hate them, the furry bastards! With their bright eyes and bushy tails... By Gor, if I were to see one right now..." Out of the corner of my eye, I see a cat-sized black squirrel scamper across the floor behind his back and begin to blow messy raspberries at the doctor's back. "Like that one?" I say, pointing. He whirls on a pinpoint and launches himself, blade flying. After a short and bloody battle (mostly the squirrel's blood), the dust from the bust settles and the strange doctor hoists the now-defunct rodent high, trophy-like. "I've been hunting this bloody ankle-biter for months... Because of you, I've finally done him in. Many thanks... Would you like to come in?" He says cheerily, indicating his domain. Before I can decline, I am yanked inside and the door shuts behind me. The inner chamber is lined with about a thousand candles, all burning brightly. They are the only available source of light, and they flicker and waver in some invisible breeze. At the center of the room is an operating table, and on this table, instead of a gruesome biological experiment or array of bodily organs, lay sprawled the various internal working of a clearly powerful computer. The strange doctor places the headless squirrel inside the computer, quickly and efficiently assembles the remaining parts, and with a dramatic flourish, plugs it in and flips the power switch. Nothing at all happens. "Damn!" He expletates. "It should've worked! Squirrel-based technology was supposed to have been the wave of the future!" Seeing that he is quite obviously getting worked up, I decide it would be in my best interests to leave, quickly and quietly. GROND As I turn to stand up, he spins towards me, with a maddening glare in his eyes, brandishing the aforementionned squirrel-killing device. I innocuously back against a wall as the hatchet on steroids is hurled towards my head. It catches the wall a mere fraction of an inch from my arm, catching the fabric of my shirt, but I cautiously extract my appendage from the indent, failing to cut it. The bloodily gleaming axe must, therefore, be distressingly blunt. Not so much a cutting tool as a large, stainless-steel bludgeoning apparatus, in true middle ages fashion. The wild-eyed scientist giggles inanely and says, "You failed to introduce yourself to Grond. She is most perturbed by impolite visitors." The white-clad man rushes up to me and attempts to extract the axe from the wall, huffing and puffing merrily. At long last, he yanks it out from its new abode, complete with a large section of wood panelling. I take the opportunity to sneak out through the newly opened section of the wall. PAUL ATREIDES' ROOM I run through darkness for several minutes, fleeing for the sanctity of my head. The floor's consistancy becomes looser and looser, and eventually I am forced to my hands and knees from exhaustion. This new position reveals the cause of my difficulty: I was no longer running on a smooth sterile floor, but was ankle-deep in rich warm desert sand. At this realization, the pitch blackness became lifted, as if there had been a barrier between me and the sky, and I could see the lifeless cold stars twinkling down at me across eternity. I could recognize none of the constellations, but one particular arrangement seemed to ressemble a desert mouse. It is while looking at this curious pattern that I become aware of a most peculiar sound... <> <> <> Rhythmically, in time with the "thumper", small rivulets of sand begin cascading down the bleak darkened dunes. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, and I get the distinct impressions both that it is no longer safe to be here and that I am not alone. "So you, too, find guidance from the Muad'dib." Not so much surprised, but taken unawares, I face the owner of this voice. He is a short boy, nay, man, weilding two large hooks in his hands. Plugs and tubes run out of his nose, mouth, and where I guess his heart to be, but his most unusual feature would be his eyes. Thoroughly blue, from centre to rim, bluer than the fresh lakes of my homeland, which I sense this planet has never known. "You must come with me if you are to survive without a stillsuit." The man indicates his black rubber attire, complete with small pumps, valves, and transparent tubes running along its surface. Inside the tubes I can see beads of moisture forming. The boots of the suit are, as well, immacculately arranged, the pants being folded in a manner that one would ordinarily never choose to do. However, my past experiences with the good Doctor Strange have enlightened me greatly on the evils of following strangers into unknown places, and I shake my head in negation. The thumping becomes drowned out by what seems to be an earthquake, and I am forced to cover my ears. The ground trembles and shivers, and the dunes rearrange themselves, golden sandy waves in eternal swells and crests. I am tossed around as a ragdoll in a sandbox, while Paul somehow maintains his footing on the shifting sands. Then, as the noise becomes unbearable, a mighty roar erupts and a monolithic worm burts out of the sand. Paul uses his hooks to pry open a segment of the worm's armour and is lifted up. As he mounts the giant invertebrate as one would a horse, he yells down to me, "If you won't come with me, at least take some spice!" I bellow, "What will it do to me?" He responds from the top of his buckling mount, "Nothing, as long as you're not running Windows '95!" and throws down a small pouch. I pick it up and smell a strong aroma of cinnamon. "I won't take it! How can I trust you?" At that Paul scrunches up his face, clears his throat a few times to collect phlegm, then says again, in a gremlinish voice, "TAKE THE SPICE." I find myself opening the pouch and snorting its contents merrily. Before I can say "Harkonnen", I am lost in a wave of unconciousness. A very boring sequence then takes place in which I see lots of water falling, dripping, splooshing, and making lots of noise in slow motion. Then I awake, in sandy clothing, in a clean white corridor. I make my way through the many rooms of the house once again. COYOTE'S DEN I am beginning to grow weary. The sense that my odd adventure is about to come to a climax weighs heavily. I find myself in a wondrously and richly furnished room with a vaulted ceiling, gilt trims, and thick persian rugs. At the far end of the room is a raised dais. There is nothing on it. Faint strains of stirring electric guitar chords, with a spiritual, almost celtic touch to them, seem to emanate from nowhere in particular. I am drawn forward, encased in almost a dreamlike state. I trip on one of the rugs and fall on my nose. I begin to hear laughter, in the form of high, sharp barks, coming from behind me. After repeated attempts to rise, I pull myself up and slowly, carefully acheived an upright position. Breaking free of the phantasmic daydream, I whirl to confront the scorner, but there is no one there. Instead, the mocking laugh leaps to the far left, just beyond my line of sight. I spin and rush in that direction, determined to catch the jester before he can vanish, but I am too late; he is now to the right of the dias, directly opposite of where I'm facing. About half a dozen times I spin and charge, but to no avail; the laugh just gets more energetic and frenetic. I am growing more weary than I thought possible; the laugh is violent and almost wracking, and I begin to wonder, not particularly sympathetically, if it is possible to die laughing. I decide, eventually, that rushing after an invisible clown is a waste of effort, so I sit down in front of the dias and address the ghostly mockery. "I will sit here until you decide to show yourself." The laughing dies away, with many chokes and giggles. "You may be sitting there for quite a long time, you know." "I don't care; I'm not going to chase you and make a spectacle of myself any longer." The voice now moves to position itself on the dias, and it speaks again, composed though somewhat amused. "Though I doubt you will, you can turn around any time. I've had my fun for the day." "Thank you for your offer, trickster, but I don't quite trust you." I confirm, rubbing my nose tenderly. "Trickster! What an accurate guess." At this, a large grand piano falls out of a carbon atom about thirty-five feet to my left and splinters noisily on the stone floor. "You're correct, I am the Trickster, though I am known by many names. Loki, Succubane, Poltergeist. But to most, I am commonly refered to as Coyote." A raging locomotive bursts from nowhere on the other side of the room and flies at us, full-speed and out of control. I cringe, expecting to be crushed to a pulp, but instead the train rushes into another dimension, about six inches short of my face. Still not turning, I continue the line of conversation. "Not that Wile E. Coyote character from the old cartoons?" "Of course not. He was my cousin. He got the short end of the luck stick, I'm afraid. He was always somewhat bitter towards me, seeing as how I got a native Indian deity in my honor and he couldn't even catch a stinking bird." I could sense Coyote smirking. "But then again, he got a Burger King mug with his face on it. Boy, I turned green with envy when I saw that one." Though I hadn't noticed it at first, a gradual shift in background music has occurred. Now, I realize that it has gone from the slow, solo guitar fingering to a full blown jazz unit. "So. How do you like my house?" I am not quite sure how to answer that. "It's been... an interesting visit." "Ah, yes. Bloody annoying and confusing, eh? I thought so. Then again, that was my purpose in building it in the first place. Nothing amuses me more than some pathetic, humorless moron making a complete dick of his or herself. No offense, of course." "You are a very sick person." He giggles, slightly madly. "Yes, today has definitely been one for the record books. You, my friend, have made my day quite worth waking up to." "I'm so terribly glad I succeeded in entertaining you. But frankly, I'm tired of this place and I want to leave." I am starting to get agitated. This character is putting me somewhat on edge. "Leave? Where to, dear heart?" I think about it a moment. I am having a hard time remembering anything previous to the mist outside the house. Many times, I think I know, and even open my mouth to say it. But each time, I realize I have nothing to say. After numerous attempts, Coyote cuts me short. "See? You have no where else to go." He muses for a moment. "I suppose I could always bring back your memories... Assuming I have them." He holds out one hand. "See, on this hand, I could have all of your recollections, just sitting in a jar in some obscure room, hidden but quite real. Perhaps I even know where they are." He holds out the other. "However, on this other hand, I could be just trying to get your hopes up. Who knows?" He shrugs. "Perhaps your memories are gone forever. Perhaps you never had any to begin with. "At any rate, I've had such a wonderful day, I think I'll keep you around for a while. If you decide to try and look for your mind - who knows, could be in this very room, though I wouldn't place any bets on it - well, best of luck. Though if I were you, I'd just sit back and enjoy the place. Heaven forbid you ever get tired of it." At this point, I turn around to look at my tormentor, but with a laugh, he is already fading quickly. I catch a glimpse of a furry, fox-like creature, but before my mind can assimilate it, there is nothing. The jazz music has faded out as well; in it's place is a wild carnival melody, jumping up and down and around me as I stand alone in this place of madness, this house of concrete. ONE OF THE MYRIAD HALLWAYS I now wander the halls. I meet many strange characters. From time to time Coyote visits me. He makes references to the possibility of my previous thoughts. I try not to think about them. I know that would be the first step to madness. Rarely do I rediscover the denizens of the house that I have already met. Instead, I am constantly meeting newer and stranger ones, each with an odd and varying level of insanity. I am starting to fit right in. I am, though I hate to admit it, starting to feel right at home. Perhaps Coyote was right. Perhaps I have no previous memories. Perhaps, I have been in the house of concrete forever. And perhaps I shall exist here forevermore.