"If you own the lifeboats, then you own the working class."
I live in a dusty old hotel adjacent to a restaurant called the Hot Pepper. They probably serve something spicy. I can't seem to recall, even though I feel as if I must go there regularly. There are two entrances into both establishments, although I get disoriented easily and I cannot always find them. It always seems easy enough at first, but I can never seem to retrace my path.
I often find myself lost in the city. It is a quaint little place, an interesting balance of the classy and the under-developed. Sometimes it reminds me very much of a small ghost-town that has had certain areas transplanted in from some generic Urban environment. What a strange feeling to have so little specific knowledge of a place I've been for so long.
We wander for quite some time, my companions being as lost as I am. Do they know how lost we are? Perhaps they aren't conscious of it. It makes me question myself. I must not dismiss the possibility that this feeling is a hallucination of mine, and yet I find that I struggle with this concept. It seems far too real to me. The others must be deaf and dumb if they do not share this experience.
After a time, I find myself traveling very quickly and with purpose. We all hang from the bottom of an airship of some kind. When it is time to land, we are instructed to let go, but I lack trust in my seat. I fear that everything will crumble if I don't hold on, and that there would be nothing left to carry me to safety. The others all let go in unison, and appear to land solidly and safely on the ground. I hesitate, however, and I still cling desperately to everything I can. The ship tries to shake me loose in a violent manner, and my legs feel weak. How can I trust a voice I've never seen?
Once all is said and done, nothing seems to change. We will always be lost, we will never understand, we will always feel alone, and faith will always be far too expensive.