You're my masterpiece.
Your eyes are marble grey; grave grey. I can change that.
Last time, I put all your memories in you: your friends, your childhood, the way you died – and you maybe went a little mad when you woke, and you might have, sort of, killed a person or two. Or five. But that's a mistake anyone could make.
It won't happen this time, for sure. When you wake, soon now, you'll only remember us. That's the important thing.
This time, for sure.
I hope you don't get smashed again. It took a long time to piece you together after the first time, but I've learnt a lot since then. I can't quite bring you back to life – yet – but I won't let you die completely.
Your friends tell me that each time I wake you up, you only want to sleep again. They say that it's time to let you go. They say that it's cruel. Don't worry, though; I stopped listening to them long ago.
You're awake again. Have you missed me? Do you have a sense of time, where you were? Is it possible to miss me?
You never answer that question.
No, no, you don't want to go outside. You don't remember it – not this time – but you'll learn to fear it. Or, not fear, that was the wrong word. You'll just love it here too much to leave. This time.
Don't leave me.
You might find a loophole in what I say, or go outside, or smash into dust, but I'll find you. I'll always find you.