Follow The Sound Of My Voice.

“You’re tense, I can feel it. Talk to me.”
At this exact moment in time, I’m sat in a small leather 'comforter chair', within a cold, white room.
The name ‘comforter’ is actually pretty hypocritical, because I feel anything but comforted at the moment. In fact, I’m pretty uncomfortable. Although, in consideration, calling it a leather discomforter chair wouldn’t exactly be a great business plan. So, I’m sat in a leather comforter.
I’m sat in said leather comforter chair in said cold, white room, and there’s a man sat in front of me, in another one of those comforter chairs. I don’t know much about him, aside from the fact that his name’s Frank, and he has lots of tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos. I spotted letters on his knuckles and I’ve been focused on trying to spell out what he has written across his fingers for the past 20 minutes, rather than what I’m actually here for. So far I’ve deducted that ‘Halloween’ is strewn across one section of his knuckles in blocked writing. His fingers move fast.
I like Halloween. There was only one time that I didn’t, and that was when I was 12. I remember it like it was just

Notes