Take a hit, oof! winded, this can only come from another self, you are not alone, you are alone. It persists and echoes in mind, a story, and a story about a story, and a story about that and so on endlessly. A breach of the inner cell walls and a process of repair that mobilises thought and feeling and slow time, heavily and unwillingly. What is the fuss all about, what precious stuff is it that needs protection? Have a look. There's nothing in there. It looks like a suite of abandoned offices - bits of torn posters on the wall, ripped out telephone and data cables, dustballs, imprints in the pile of the worn carpet, an old coffee mug with a broken handle, palm prints, dirty windows. The sadness of old projects when you no longer have projects, the sadness of returning when you can no longer return. But here it is, still largely intact, not really abandoned at all, you are still on the lease.