No carpet on the floor, no pictures on the wall: just cold stone. ‘What is this place?’ Miranda asked. ‘Home,’ Grey replied as he began making...his way down the corridor, bracing his hand against the wall, ‘or what passes for it for the last few years.’ Miranda looked aghast, ‘Years? You’ve spent years here?’ ‘Many.’ The corridor opened up into a large, square shaped room, four walls, cookie-cutter perfect and cast in cement. ‘Huh,’ Miranda commented, refused to be surprised any longer, ‘Okay,. She was puzzled."No. Like in life. Memories. The present, the future. Even fictional stories. They are killing me. I'm spending nights up, writing things so sad that I sometimes cry, and then I look out and it's morning, the sun is rising, and I have to go to work. I work like a zombie. I fall asleep in my office, and only notice because the phone rings, someone enters, the computer makes a noise every now and them because I set it to. But I'm writing. All this time, when I'm talking to people,. More

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