Fudgy syrup and creamy ice cream melt and mingle on his tongue, and as he sits there, he can't seem to recall the last time he'd tasted it. He can't seem to recall a lot of small details like that. What does he enjoy about life? What are his favorite flavors of food, his favorite colors? He's been so driven by a need to escape that he's lost track of himself. Did he enjoy the sun on the beach, the sound of waves, and the grit of sand between his toes? No, he'd been too focused on his plan.

"I suppose not. But, I don't know if I could ever simply enjoy it for what it is, not while I'm a prisoner here. This place is too much like the last one. I never stopped trying there, either."