Your nostrils flare as its nasal connective tissue shrivels away from the surface membrane agitated by the all too familiar but never welcomed aroma of sterile detergent soaked halls. Incoherent howls emanate through a series of secure control doors while practiced hands dance about access pads ushering you towards the source of the mania. What lies before you possesses all cues of a care home for those afflicted by dementia. Between the penetrating shrill cries you make out conversation detailing The RealReal eating shit, Snowplow Goons totalling city bikes, leather pant dialectics, Cautionary Commonwealth announcements, French Foreign Legion musings, rise of Inceldom before your knees begin to buckle. As you stir from your catatonic state & begin to piece together what had transpired you can’t help to wonder why you’re looking down the other end of those same control doors.