My mind is a house partway through renovation, laid on ancient foundations on an island beneath the sea.
I live in the basement, its walls of steal streaked with the iridescent graffiti of imagination, the floor littered with opinions cast aside.
My room is my solace — but also my prison; outside the ocean currents rip and claw.
Piled high in crooked towers are books on books, and against the far wall, a shelf of disregarded faces, each a person I once was.
The other rooms stand empty, waiting to be filled: red rooms, blue rooms, greens rooms, black. The door tempts me, mocks me, drives me insane with its promise of potential.
My room is my solace — but also my prison; the key is knowledge and soon experience will set me free.
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