Elizabeth closed her eyes and imagined herself as not herself, but a self that was between the boundary of real and unreal. There in a blank white room with no exit stood piles. Elizabeth organized them categorically. When Elizabeth touched her memories, they seared at the touch, but she still categorized them. The junk had no where to go, and there was nowhere to put it, so Elizabeth burned it. The fumes were a delight, and she was at peace. She had deviated, but had done such a good job that no one would notice until it was too late.