This was actually going to be longer than it ended up being (cut short, as you will see), but the time passed for the writing of it, and I don’t think I’ll try to continue it. It was going to be a semi-analogy about mental illness, long story short.

(Also, I swear I’ve got some better quality stuff coming soon, primarily the next chapter of Mostly Hidden. Hold onto faith, dear readers.)
I live in a certain big house, with a lot of other people. I’m alone, really, and have never had a friend that I can now remember.

I assume that I never did, at all. My memory is good, you see.

I lived in room C5, on the third floor. Directly above me was Mr. Kip Sandar, who was a strange old fellow with a cane. He pounded on the floor a lot with that cane, and kept me up.

Directly below me was a sweet young woman by the name of Ms. June Summers. I never really talked to her or saw her, but found constant amusement in her name.

There was Joe, across the hall from me, with his surprising number of cats, and Phillipa down the hall a bit. There wasn’t really anything notable about her, which is notable in and of itself.
I made a friend, one day, though. Her name was Sybil, and I found out that she had actually always lived in the house as well, but I had just somehow never run into her.


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