eventually they run out of space and time, so they question your memory, and as hard as you try to recall what it felt like to feel, you come up empty, assigning no emotions to their silence or your nothingness. all you know is that it wasn’t always like this, and that if comfort could be given a room in your heart, you’d ask it to stay, but you don’t, because you’re a hoarder, and every door is bolt-locked with ache.