allikat2577

Lone hallways, dark corridors, empty rooms; nothing there. Nothing. Nothing. Perfectly silent. He remembers when there was a steady drip, drip, drip of water coming from an unknown source, but there's nothing now. Doors used to creak open, but they too, have become quiet. His own footfalls were softened long ago and remain so out of habit, almost as if they are not there. Almost as if they have no owner. Was he really here? Cicero has forgotten. He can't remember what it's like to feel alive anymore, so he doesn't know he feels dead. Dead to the world. Dead to himself. What day is it? He doesn't know. Time means little now. Except to oil Mot