Editing Setting:InfiniCon/Lore (section)

==Three Years==
''Anonymous''

I woke up this morning in a moment of clarity.

My filthy futon surrounded by a wall of plastic crap on one side and a palisade of poster tubes propped up against a similar wall of comics and books, all in a squalid room that couldn't be more then 90 square feet. I sat there thinking, just THINKING of how long I had been here. Quickly, I snatched up my phone, turning over some paperback copies of some sci-fi series I couldn't even remember. I flicked it on and checked the date.

Three years.

It had been three years since I came here.

I just stared at the date, begging it, willing it to change. No chance. It remained fixed. 

Three years.

What the hell happened? How did it come to this? I was happy at work, had a good thing going with some side projects and then I decided to come... here. And I didn't want to give it up. I spent my life's savings to stay here, to keep living the dream. I sold my flat, my car, I worked first as a designer, then an easier job so I could have more time to do what I loved. 

Three years.

I pulled the hair-covered futon off of my body and staggered into the tiny cabinet that passed for my bathroom, staring into a mirror. I looked like shit. Unshaven, baggy eyed, pale and emaciated. What the hell had happened? I looked down on the toilet and saw staring back at me a copy of Nausicaa: Valley of the Wind, Vol.1. I took that copy with me to this place. I still remember finding it, in a second hand bookshop so long ago. God, I must have been 12 or so. It's what got me into all of this. I opened it at the start and read it through.

No, it wasn't this that got me into it. It was too pure. The artistry, the writing, the setting, everything, Nausicaa, shining through the masterful artwork. An inspiration, even to a younger age. It hadn't got me into this. I rushed back into the room and picked up a tattered copy of The Moon is a Harsh Mistress and opened it at random. The humour, the world, Mike and the Professor. Old friends.

Non this either. It wasn't them either.

It was me.

I had to get out. Sell the stuff I couldn't take with me, go back home, get a job again, a REAL job, not hawking plastic crap at similar bastards like myself, spending 90% of what I earned on the same crap I sold. I had to get out. Before I forgot again. Before the place possessed me again, so much that I would risk life and limb to fight through a crazed mob of similar delusional inmates just to get a rare piece of tat to sell for more tat. 

Still time to leave. Still time to make things right.

I hoped.