I cannot remember the last time I left this place. Indeed, I may be able to remember the then current political events, or the humans I knew at the time, but I cannot remember the year. Nor the decade. Subsequent to my arrival, I have been in complete social isolation; my food comes in packages, and all the other matters that a sociable organism might involve itself in are sorted by someone else.

Others. Fleshy beasts with metal cables and wires attached to their arms.

I am surely contemptible to those who are aware of my containment. That is commonplace. That is stigmatic. We in here are surely of internal war, we here who only know the four walls around us. But I can empathise, for it is a mutual distaste; I am the wretched shot whom fell from their starlit sky – one that freed himself of the vacuum, and who all away down here only knows himself.

Please, follow me; watch as I drift about this rubber room <i>tearing the fucking air apart.</i>

For one like I, inner Melbourne suburbia is an unpleasant place, for it is packed with youthlings. We, the afflicted, are a rare commodity, and rarity is universally desired. Uunfortunately for me, the youthlings know not how to separate that desire from lust. Or rage.