The roof

The Wanderer walks in circles, lost in a world where no one can truly escape. He moves freely, but that very freedom feels like a cage. The sun rises, offering a glimmer of hope. 

He takes one step after another, trying to find the path, but always turns when the vice commands.

The Wanderer longs for help—perhaps if he follows Andromeda's Ghost, he could stay on track. But what is this ghost, really? A fleeting desire for something unattainable? Or is it a deeper reflection of the mind's pull toward ruin?

"Is this another like?"

"Andromeda's Ghost."

"There is a desire to admire and feel the body."

"Everybody is watching."

"There's a time when we all fail.

- And bring the worst to those around us. "The ones who loved you walked away."

A big disgrace came upon me, for my sins.

"You always have trouble when you depend on others' good judgment."

"Fears exist only to be faced."

"This task was given to you because of your abilities. The only thing that can stop you is your behavior."

"I've discovered the version of me that went wrong."

The woods are bright and sunny in the daytime, but they're consumed by shadows at night. The trees grow tall, their silence profound. Yet, it's another day of vice.

The Wanderer is haunted by something unseen—something he can't touch, a fleeting thought or memory lost in time. "BigB was born in the middle of her withdrawal."

"I saw them before they turned the lights on."

"I remembered peace, but peace didn't remember me."

Is peace something you can remember, or is it an illusion we chase in vain? The Wanderer questions this, but his voice is drowned by the noise of his internal struggle. He swears he's been trying to write sober, but the words only come in the mornings—raw, honest, without filters.

He wishes to write at the end of the day, like a diary—reflecting on what was. But there's something more pressing, something tangled deep within him—a muse, a need to touch, to feel, to hold onto something.

The persecution of normality continues. A logic that doesn't make sense. The best argument to explain what goes on in the mind of an addict is the study with spiders—those webs we weave, so beautiful, so precise, yet always at risk of collapsing. Like our thoughts, spiraling, searching for structure in the chaos.

Charity was the only good thing about the choices The Wanderer made. People may not recognize it, but in some way, they appreciated the piano he carried through 'The Woods'. If someone must take the bullet, it's better it be The Wanderer.

Even when the path was unclear, The Wanderer knew it. He understood the dangers of chasing normality, of striving for something that may not be meant for him. But his decisions were his own. To fall. To rise. To repeat.

In the end, it wasn't about right or wrong—it was about choice. The Wanderer had chosen his fate, not with a full understanding of its consequences, but with the realization that the search for peace could sometimes bring more pain. But isn't that life?

The world, the jury—they decide. They judge. And The Wanderer waits.

The patient's thoughts about himself are often destructive. By forcing his mind to think in a certain way, one can actually alter reality.

The Wanderer realizes that the place he's lost in grows larger as he gets lost, yet it could be a small spot where he could stop and rest under the shadows of the trees.

What happens in the world affects our cognition, and in turn, our feelings. If we can change our cognition, we can change our feelings.

"You've been thinking a monster is fighting against you or that you've fallen into a trap. But actually, you're struggling with your conscience," explained Laura.

"What should I do?"

"Expel those ghosts from your mind. Forbid them entry—every single one. The mother who walked away. The unfair lover. The hateful boss. All your bullies."

Laura was cultured, articulate, attractive, funny, and unpretentious. She had the rare gift of seeing the truth beneath the surface.

The Wanderer wanted to accept her guidance, but any help felt like telling a schizophrenic to stop hearing voices. The Wanderer tries to modify the wind's speed and humidity to lower his brain's temperature, but the action causes an imbalance.