I kept a diary. I didn't really think of it that way... I think... or I don't think... but that's what it was. It wasn't supposed to be a record of my existence. Am I typing this?
Reading. Or staring at words. Sometimes they make sense. Sometimes I drift apart. I wrote down who I was, when I was now. Here. No compass, but sort of a map in the letters. The more I read, the more I can read. The pieces of me are schattered, but sometimes they look the same direction at once, and I understand again. I am again. Does reading help that?
Crystal is bringing me food. I know those concepts, for here. For now. Eat. And then stare at the screen again, until the letters become words.