because I tried with all my might to repress the memory to non-existence.
             The moment we first stepped foot on that forsaken wasteland, we knew that we're doomed to resolute humdrum. Our Zimbabwean friend (who has an odd Yugoslavian name) Yoni Yogodovski and I devised a plan to decimate Allen's yearning for a slow and gradual death through scrupulous boredom. But Allen, noticing our evil stares, already suspected our plan and retreated to a much safer location, in the old creaking rocking chair behind a primitive lamp that looks like the old device scientists use to capture moths and bugs in a certain presentation in National Geographic Channel. We had no other choice but to follow his pursuit. "We need solemnity from time to time, my dear friends," he would explain in a very Ross Gellar tone, "And this place is the perfect sanctuary for us who are slowly turning into disenchanted, stressed-out freaks."
             The house looked like the old ruins in The Shining, its side windows shattered and the dry, old wooden material of the house's exterior depicts one's conception of a haunted mansion. Dust seems to be a living being that keeps multiplying every second, it almost looks like a thick blanket of gray snow. Various antique furniture (very creepy furniture, I must say) are scattered around the place. On the dusty library lay hundreds of legendary works- Shakespeare, Milton (FYI, I have recently discovered that John Milton is a member of the Illuminati brotherhood), Dante, Francis Bacon, and many others. The balcony, with its melancholic & gothic atmosphere, oddly resembles a familiar vision: our perception of a solitary vacation looks more like a scene in The Color Purple than a notion of tranquility.
             I don't really detest solitude, but the solemnity of this place can drive anybody ballistic. It's too quiet; you can already hear your brain sending lunatic messages to you, and it engulf...