So much for so much more.

It is difficult to write anything useful or interesting presently, so please stop reading at once.  It is agony writing from a position so low.  If he wore a beret he would say that it must be done 'for the love of the craft' or something, but he isn't here any longer: he's dead, and I never even met him anyway.  She looks over my shoulder sometimes and can't quite contain her surprise when something halfway decent comes of all the struggling.  I can smell the antiseptic corridors of her mind.  Somewhere beyond the bright pastel halls where the white-coats strut, there is a room.  The scent of cleaning solution fails to mask entirely the whiff of dirt, grease, and blood slithering out from the crack beneath a door marked 246-A.  Behind that door sits a large sum of money.  The door is locked.

She loses interest.  Whether this is feigned or not, I cannot tell.  Grandpa walks in stiffly.  It is difficult to recall having seen him walking about because he was usually seated and talking, often with a glass of Scotch in hand, and also because he too is dead.  His appearance is a statement that echoes in the empty vaults above: "Study your idea of another's mind as carefully as you like, but you can never know their true mind itself".