The world is reduced to the walls that surround you, they are all you know for certain. They become stained with your drifting fingertips. There is a window, it shows you the world when it is awake, and yourself when the world sleeps. Your reflection is strange, it is not how you remember looking, but it is not a crime to change. Time passes, language becomes alien, you are no less a stranger to yourself but this begins to matter less. The window is no longer transparent, it has a shield of the marks of your fingertips. Your eyes begin to matter less, light-sensing organs made obsolete by the endless memory of this small room. Three steps left from the shoulder-high bump in the wall is where the ceiling starts to dip down to meet the floor. Your heart beats slowly in the center of your thorax, that is where sight remains enamouring. If you lay still, heart beating strong and lungs stoppered shut, there is the slightest twitch of the chest, the slightest sway against the spine.