I roll my eyes back into my head. I am searching for memories, but all I have is darkness. I fumble through my own mind like a child lost in the woods, my own fear greater than anything to be fearful of. I scour or pretend to scour, the shelves of my mind. My memories must exist in here, buried out of sight, but I can not find them. The world does not feel like it fits me, it used to fit me like a glove, but have I now grown or has teh world grown? Cast adrift in my mind like Pi, perhaps there is no more a fitting character to my tale? The squabbles with my thoughts, chasing for ideas of who I am.