vespertillo

I wish I could say that it feels like coming home. I'm aware of it before my cheek hits the pillow, even though every last muscle in my body feels rested, some strange facsimile and one that can't be real. It's not the same as before, no deep and unyielding pull down a predetermined path, but the walls constructed in this world are nearly identical in their perfection. Every last detail is in place, because they are all taken from my memory, a conglomeration of an infinite number of points. I take the wooden grain from two years ago; I take the polished mirror from six months. My hand runs over the sheets, and they're cool to the touch, the only time I ever commit them to memory.

Yes, everything is perfect. And therein lies the problem.

So why am I here? It's not as simple as a dream; I'd be able to wake myself up. The island, I'm assuming. I've done my research, I know that people return home on occasion, but that there's nothing that dictates or guarantees that there's any accuracy in the trip. I'm aware that people can find themselves in a never-ending loop, but always one with a finish line. What's that for me?

"Master Bruce?"

Alfred.

I guess, as long as I'm here, I could use the advice. Self-fabricated or not.