Day 2,141

You were in the place of lost things.

You were not a lost thing though.

Not then.

You walked through miles and miles of shelves stuffed to bursting, collapsing under their own weight like the beached whales you passed by on your way to the next place. You were always heading to the next place as told you to by whatever she images posted next.

Where she went, you followed.

Through the drone's forest, creeping beneath the barely slumbering hive mothers and pacifying the weeping brood with droplets of your blood. You were there some months ago but their clickwhispers still seemed to follow you. Perhaps you'd gained some loyalty there.

Beneath the thirty-seven bridges of the marshlands, using synthetic skin grafts as replacement filters when the stagnant air clogged the industrial-strength ones in your gas mask. Spores from the unhatched marshbird eggs stuck to your clothes like organic daggers, itching to sink into the thinnest skin on your body.

Wading through the dead men's lake, watching their not-so-dead corpses float beside you, following you as you were following her with perhaps a touch more hunger in their eyes and a touch less loneliness in their hearts. Sometimes they'd reach out to you, physically and verbally and it took all your strength to not return their embrace.

Now you were in the place of lost things. Where all the world's back pocket items seemed to fall. She was here yesterday and judging by the size of the place she might be here still, looking for a lost thing of hers like you were looking for her, lost thing that you were becoming and that she might already be.