fingers tense against the gnarled oak chest, clutching at drawers, scrambling, fumbling inside. i am blind, my vision having died in darkened rooms, blindfolded by dirty sheets and smothered by anything without an edge. paper cuts my skin as i claw within the dark for clues, for something soft and warm, familiar, breaking my knuckles against the splintered wood as i search. there. something there. as fingertips tickle the tip of its outline a light fires from somewhere unseen - a spark far away that flashes an image, a distant star to find myself by. i dig deeper, clutching onto nothing and everything, anything with both hands, sweaty palms grasping only empty air and dust. is that all there is to find here? i lay them flat and take a breath of dark and unwashed air. another burst of light, and i see the image once more - older, no wiser - a face that forgot to stop. its curiosity peers at me from a place beyond. i stare back at it, forcing my hands from the empty familiar chest. slowly i move forward as it dims, my footsteps marked by brief memories of quickly fading flashes.