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For every object that has ever meant anything to anyone is a string that links it with time. These strings are strong. I try to imagine your room. It is inhabited by lengths and lengths of string, obscuring the objects they hold. No one can enter as much as no one, who had been lucky (who, in the end, aren’t so) to bypass the tangle, can come out. You are falling at this very moment. The strings are unyielding. None snaps as you snag at them in your descent. And this is you, owner of the room, who supposedly knows his way around. Imagine me in your room. I am trapped, and I will likely go of slow, seemingly endless suffocation.
