There was a girl, who could become a woman, but instead she voyaged into her home, and there she built a house (a very tiny house) to contain herself and all her things. The house, gray, blank, and isolated, terrified the girl and took hold of her. She clung to it, without reason or will, because it was hers, and it became all that she could remember or strive for. Sometimes she cried, kicked, screamed, moaned, and then the house would grow tired and subdue her. Its steel walls hid the girl from the warmth and sun of her original home, and they, in turn, were hidden from her. She forgot the warmth, and forgot the sun, but could not grow past what she'd forgotten. Eventually the girl grew sickened by those things with which she shared her space; she threw them through the door: her bed, bath, water, the very things she needed to sustain her-she purged them from her quickly shrinking house. She soon dispelled the air she breathed and lay down in surrender, having lost the energy to fight. For some time, the good people who lived in her home without would throw her things back in to her; she would toss them away at once, or feign use of them and force them out her window, crumpled, unused by her, and usable to none. She felt sorry for the waste, but what was she to do? She didn't need these things (mere things), and those outside couldn't understand. The battle wrenched her side to side, as she drew her house nearer to her and rejected what she could not feel (or remember) of the outside, her home. Soon, she feared her lungs would starve for air as the ones from without pumped and pumped (and ever pumped) it in...