#(.entry)

Somewhere in the in-between sits a prison. A house, both familiar and completely unknown, with rules unique to itself. Nothing here is consistent. There is no sun. Vinny has been here as long as he remembers; his memories having faded away with time. The cabinets fill themselves with food. It's not ideal, but clearly something is trying to make it livable. Is this an experiment? A zoo?

A pair of cameras hang high at either corner of his room. Their little red lights blink to their own rhythm.

Oh well. At least there's wifi.

SUBJECT: VINCENT "VINNY" EVERYMAN

Perhaps the most fickle of things.

A change in the cognitive understanding of his viewpoint.

A lost friend to an older time, a time that pains me.

Be it not an ode to the fears that trickle so silently down into my hands,

Be it a reminder that I must regain my old habits.

Regain the legibility of paper and ink and the rhythm of the strokes.

Paper does not change the same way our minds do.

It may be why I can never forget.

If I write their names down, and their habits, the way they smiled, the way they would present ideas and arguments and everything that I knew that made their beings.

Then they will not be lost to me.

It was a memory from before.

Dusty archives and fear.

An older time.

I write to remember.

I write as I am the last to remember.