- Chapter One -
A Lock Without A Key
It was very hard for Locke to make out clearly anything in regard to his immediate vicinity, so soon after his awakening. He was not at all unintroduced to the phenomenon of rediscovering consciousness in such a . . . 'compromised' sensory capacity; worrying him a bit more pressingly was the fact that he could not recall when, or, on what specific occasions, he had been so introduced. Where had he been so indisposed before, and with whom? There had been company, hadn't there? He had the vaguest recollections of one (or many?) enjoyable . . . evenings . . . spent in what he could still intuit was a ludic disregard of consequence, but there were no faces, no recognizable places, just vestigial sentiments evacuated of purpose or context. Locke, that was his name . . . but what was his last name? Did he have one? There was no response forthcoming for these queries either.
His cheek felt as though it were plastered to what was coming into focus as a grey rock floor with what he could only presume was his own sweat. With an audible 'thwack', he emancipated his face from its' squalid embrace with the stone to take stock of his surroundings.
