Memories are dangerous things. You turn them over and over, until you know every touch and corner, but still you’ll find an edge to cut you. I looked into my own darkness. I knew what it was to be trapped, and to watch ruination. Each day the memories weigh a little heavier. Each day they drag you down that bit further. You wind them around you, a single thread at a time, and you weave your own shroud, you build a cocoon, and in it madness grows. The lights pulsed beneath my fingers, ebbing and flowing to the beat of my voice. You sit here with your yesterdays queuing at your shoulder. You listen to their reproach and curse those that gave you life.