Mother, I cannot say it much clearer. I am simply not real. I’m not sure why, but the histories of the Ancient Egyptian pharaohs Tutankhamen or Hatshepsut, the silk trade or Surrealism and the Greek Wars seem incomprehensible. My memories elude me. They are the distant past, from which I am woefully detached. I am their prisoner, as the semblances of what I had kaleidoscope in my hippocampus. They are mine no longer — rather sterile, lifeless fragments of when I was. I have found four things to touch, three to smell, two to hear. The cold, damp dirt grounds me to the Earth. I’ve inhaled, held my breath for ten. I release. But still confined by the fog from which my cognition has delayed itself. There is not much else, Mother, that I can say. The hours have morphed into days filled with kaleidoscoped images of every expectation ever to become of me. I fear it has consumed me. Perhaps it is the retrograde for the positions of the stars, suns or Mars might help distract me from what I will be, what I should be, what I could be. Could I be?