The hallway is dark, with slivers of moonlight from the windows catching the edges of a dark red rug. Picture frames hang in the hallways, but the pictures within are indiscernible. There's a bookshelf that could hold hundreds of books, but there are only three. The rest of the shelves hold dust and cobwebs from spiders who vacated years ago. This was made for someone of high authority or prestige. Yet it is left in such an eerie and unclean state. This place has an age to it that cannot be determined. Some say it was built merely a couple of decades ago, others claim it was hundreds of years since its first brick was placed. The only thing for certain was that nothing was certain. Beneath the dark oak door is an orange glow from the fireplace on the other side of the door. The way the light dances not only shows the strength of the fire but that he is present. The Cell. Sometimes the Cell will stay in his room for days, weeks even. Nobody knows what he does, but they know that he is capable of many things. He shows a knowledge that is thought dormant and a creativity that has never been taught to anyone. When he isn't present, there isn't a foggiest idea of where he goes. But without him there to feed and tame the fire in his room, it grows or shrinks depending on how he left it. The Cell thinks a lot. He thinks about all aspects of reality. He questions science and religion, he studies psychology and philosophy. The Cell admires biology and geology and attempts to control physics and politics. However, the few people who know the Cell think of him as crazy. His ideas are outrageous, his views scandalous and controversial. But he did not care for the opinions of the people who judged him. He only cared for his work and studies. The Cell views the world through lenses that aren't used as they should be. He would try to find the veins of a rock, the emotions within the moon, and a way to physically bend space to his will. Of course, all of these he knew were impossible, but that's why he kept looking. It didn't matter if it was impossible. Because if he could find it, then it wasn't impossible. The door is much closer now, the popping of burning wood coming from the other side. Usually, you could hear the Cell ruffling through his papers or writing something down. Right now you could hear nothing. But he was inside. Nobody ever knocked on his door. They would walk in whenever they wanted, ask him things whenever they wanted, much like how You would. Sometimes people had genuine questions which he answered thoroughly and deeply. Other times they asked for a quick laugh at his ideas, to which he gave blunt and stubby answers. While he cared little about what others thought of him, he didn't feel kindly about being made a fool of. So when he was sought out for his insane answers, he gave them still, but without the satisfaction of explaining himself unless prompted otherwise. If someone didn't actually care about the answers he was willing to share, they didn't deserve to know his research. The doorknob turned clockwise. A clicking sound came from the door and it opened. Inside was a room with a large, beautiful wooden table in the middle. A table lamp sits on the desk, although it lacks a cord for it to be used. A black leather chair on wheels sat behind it. The walls were clothed with shelves and cases, with books and pages organized in a way no normal person would organize such information. Small desks sit between shelves, with similar lamps as the one on the desk. All are bright with color but lack the light to properly display their art. A dark red rug like the one in the hallway covers the majority of the mahogany floors. The fireplace sat on the other end of the room, with a large fire reaching up the chimney. It was always a wonder how the fire got fed, as there were no logs for the fire to eat nearby. Some theorized that the Cell fed people to the fire, which is why he was typically visited in groups. Others thought he threw out old papers or books in the fire. Few simply conclude its magic. Nobody cared to ask. The Cell never thought to answer. There was a large picture frame hanging above the fireplace. The figures depicted within seem just visible, but even with the bright fire, it was hard to tell what it was. A man? A portrait? No, it's an animal. An animal in a field? Or is it just a field? The Cell sat at the desk, writing something down on a piece of paper. There were usually scattered pieces of paper on the desk, with the addition of several stacks of books and broken pens or pencils. Today there were only pages. The wood floor creaked and the Cell looked up. He wasn't surprised by the new visitor. Instead of engaging the new presence within his room, he continued to write. The sound of the pencil on paper seemed to drown out the sound of flame. Eventually, the Cell ran out of room on his paper. He opened up a drawer in his desk and sighed. He needed to get more paper again. As he leaned back in his chair he gained eye contact again with the visitor. Still unnerved by the entrance, but finally realizing there was someone here made the Cell awake from his routine. He leaned forward onto his desk, not moving any of the papers that were under his arms. They seemed plastered onto his desk, yet somehow still possible to grasp and move. Some pages were empty, completely clean. Others had sporadic writing that meant nothing to anyone. "I suppose you're here because of my writings." The Cell spoke. The Cell had recently begun writing, nothing he hadn't tried before. But he would publish them to the public, and while not gaining any literary traction, it was still being regarded. They didn't seem to be research papers or explain anything that would answer a question. In fact, most stories ended ambiguously and without a clear ending to a story. They depicted fictional characters and events, although it was clear that the Cell took real-world inspiration from somewhere. The visitor did not move. The Cell sighed again. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you much, but ask whatever you please if you truly want to." the Cell remarked. It was clear that while he actually wanted very much to explain each writing in detail, the visitor understood that the Cell might not answer any of these questions. The two were silent for a moment. The only sound is the fire in the fireplace. It cast shadows across the desk and bookshelves. The visitor bathed in its fiery light, yet remained under an intentional shadowy blanket. "The stories represent new... findings in my research. I have recently come across a phenomenon that has recurred every so often. It isn't anything that could affect more than say 10 people. But it's something that is hard to research without running in circles. Of course, it isn't dead ends I'm running into that prevent me from continuing on my path and forcing me to return to previous details. Rather... it's more like I cannot escape the cycle." The Cell answered. The answer was similar to how his writings went. He clearly said something that told a lot, but to his readers, it meant almost nothing. Silence returned again. "What do you mean? I have already answered the question. If you do not fully understand what I am saying, then it is clear the writing is either not for you or you are not aware of the same discoveries as me." The Cell shot back. The Cell was now a little annoyed. The visitor did not flinch when the Cell began to move. His hands glided across the table searching for a pen to click on rapidly. That always calmed him down. He wasn't distressed enough that he would start checking his drawers. Or worse... "I wouldn't say that I am making the writings for anyone in particular. I am making them with the idea that someone including me will learn from them and garner the information that I am sharing. I can make my stories extraordinarily clear, but then they would lose their purpose. It is much better to hide my intentions behind characters or metaphors such as dancing or an apocalypse. However, I only want the people who are actively seeking these ideas to find them. If you do not seek this discovery, then you do not get to understand the texts I release." The Cell explained. The visitor stood motionless and voiceless. It did not ask questions. But the Cell knew what questions to answer. He knew also that eventually the visitor would fall to the floor and cease being a character within his room. The Cell didn't know if that was his fault or not, but it did not matter. The visitor wasn't meant to be alive for long either way. "You know, you are the first person who I am telling any of this to. Not because I trust you in any capacity. But because there are people out there who have discovered what I am doing. They don't want to stop me, not yet anyway, but now they know I am writing. They know I am making something. They cannot be allowed to interpret my creations too soon. I am hoping that this "interview" of sorts will allow me to either throw them off or encourage them to find what I am currently learning." The visitor has begun to sway. Back and forth. There was no wind. The need for this vessel is simply wearing thin. And his wooden feet were growing unstable. The Cell was getting into his ramblings again. The Cell was revealing more than he thought he should, but he couldn't bear to hold back any of it without letting the one who he writes for understand that there is more that the stories are trying to say. Even though the Cell is shooting himself in the foot by revealing ulterior motives with his writing, he feels he has no choice. Much as how the cycle has affected him in the past, the Cell is acting in a way that might be self-destructive. He is aware of this, aware of the paranoia and emotional pain this brings him. This does not cause him to stop however, he chooses to carry on. This would allow him not only to continue his writing but to perhaps write more beautifully. Perhaps he could use this opportunity to find new ways to find new aspects of his cycle. "This cycle that I am in forces me to confront something that I seem unable to avoid. I wish to understand how to either pursue it or let it die. However, either avenue fails to allow me peace it seems. Thus returning me to where I began. Returning me to You." The visitor has now fallen on the floor. Its use has vanished, and the attention of the Cell has shifted to its real audience. The Cell's voice has transformed into white noise. Not because he has transformed or anything like that, but because he isn't the one talking right now. "You. You are the reason this is happening." The Cell is looking across his room, down the hallway. The Cell is looking at You. "Let me rephrase, You are not the reason that I am in my cycle, but it is really my fault. I couldn't help falling into it, and my true goal is to find a way out of the cycle. The thing is, the cycle revolves around You. Not all of you, of course, the others who are here, but specifically You. If that is too hard to interpret, then that means I am doing a good job." The Cell has his hands tied together with his fingers, his grasp so strong that his skin is starting to pigment. "This cycle that I have found myself has thrown me into a psychological torture chamber that I cannot escape. In all of my years of research and knowledge in psychology, I have never found myself in such an unsolvable, painful situation. To achieve the outcome I want to escape my torture, I need to be patient and do what I can to express my torture in a way where if it is wished to be explored, it can be but otherwise passes as anything else. The cycle is my torture, and You are unknowingly in the cycle." The Cell said. The Cell is attempting to find the perfect way to finish off his conversation, his one-sided conversation with You. Of course, You can still answer, just not directly or within the same capacity as the Cell communicates. While the Cell chooses to write with the ink of his blood, he doesn't expect the same out of You. Don't feel bad though, that is the whole point of the Cell's writing. "Unfortunately, I must end this new piece. I am afraid I will swirl into the cycle again and become stuck like I have many times before. All I ask is that you read my writings carefully and do your best to interpret how You fit into it all. I understand that anyone can read my pieces, but they are messages for You. Beauvoir, I hope to talk to You soon." The Cell concludes. He looks out into his hallway, trying for a second to find a glimpse of You, but eventually gives up. The Cell opens his drawer pulls out another piece of paper, and begins writing again. His door slowly closes until it clicks into its frame. The hallway outside has been disturbed, as if a small gust of wind had blown in. Cobwebs are swaying, dust is settling, and the rug has been pulled a little. The Cell will eventually talk again with another visitor, but for now, he has said all he needs to say. His writings will continue, and his research into the cycle will progress. The Cell walks a fine line between his research and the danger he poses to himself. He knows if his research comes to light that he will be found out. Being found out could result in his research ceasing before he can actually understand the cycle. However, he has to, because this is how his research must go on. So the Cell writes, and he hopes that You see. Because You are in his writings.

End