I don't remember what year it is. Just that it's soon to not be today any longer. Tomorrow will be here and I'll have not moved. I'm still not moving. I'm still here as everything changes, vanishes, fades away. Where am I supposed to be? Supposed to go? When will I finally wake up and actively engage in this life the body floats through? The masses it interacts with? Perhaps that's the point of this place. The taste is what's left. The sight, touch, and smell were first. Never to grow up right, call me the third/forth. My name is Left.