I’m alone in a house. It seems familiar - yet unfamiliar. I walk through its dark rooms. They are dimly lit by faint, flickering lights. The rooms seem half empty. As soon as I enter, they fill up with things long forgotten. There are no doors. There are no windows. Everything I touch in the room opens up into further rooms. Time’s line winds and whirls in wild loops. I lost my way long ago. To me, it seems there is no beginning. And no end. The further I walk, the more rooms open up. Or were they there all the time? A never-ending labyrinth that has not one but countless pathways – but no way in and no way out. I have no idea how I got here. And no idea of what it might be like outside. Perhaps this house doesn’t even exist. Perhaps it’s just a figment of my imagination. Perhaps it’s no more than a piece of wood I cling to as it drifts through the void. Scraps of memories float by. I try to grasp them. I weave them together into one. But each time their threads dissolve and slip away.