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Her fingertips are freezing blueish and her posture is frigid. She passes through the world unseeing as unpleasant daydreams fill her mindspace with ink; terrifying nightmares are awakening. The pale, peaceful white of her inner sanctum is colouring a pitiful grey-pink; in the brain blood mush, she misconstrues her own thoughts. Where once there was a garden; a grey-blue skyscraper now stands defiant. The pesky cats have been culled. The street has changed, but she doesn't notice. The place of her birth; trite & formidable, disappears under the memories it holds. Still she does not recall. Her periphery is a smooth, clean blur even though she's only walking. The house hasn't seen her now sickly frame for years. Still lost in painful thoughts, she stops at the door and turns the key.