A singular confluence wanders up and down the edges of a book's spine. Inside, between the meanderings of a madman's death glee, there lies a coiled form that refuses to shape to the eyes. Blurred and sleepy, it invites you into it's inner circled grace, where devils come to dance and bees live in the brain. It would be wise to close the book now, soft and genteel as the clink of a teacup, it is a prince after all. When all is said and done between the book end and the scantily scared wall, it serves to your notion to look around some. Between the room and you there are no secrets, just a mahogany crippled table and few fairy feathers between the cupboards. Still, it is your room and all, complete with the scent of writer's block and sour mushroom wine.

Who are you?

I don't know

Where am I?