My patron withdrew the empty medicine bottle with a gloved hand.

You could foretell it perhaps, but only instinctively, by guessing. I don’t mean to boast, but if you’ve been in this house as long as I have, you start to become it. Here, planes of wall follow your movements always, winding steadily closer to your form in mock companionship. As I move from room to room the walls exist at once in my past, present, future. In it’s solidity, the wall asserts omnipotent authority, and in part by nature of its existence serves to limit and direct a person’s progress through space, as well as determine the destination. 

I’ve in some sense become a piece of furniture here, a fixture of the house. Such silence has decayed the flamboyance with which I faced the world once before. Yet, in the stillness, I came to see how objects radiate with sentient intelligence. I turn around, does the world not also move? What an insult to the nature of material surroundings, that I, in my ignorance, perceived human progress as independent and superior to that of silent artifact! Distantly, I dream of the day when my cells will solidify further, and become free of thought and movement.