My name is W. There are only three corners in my mind, the fourth flu away 4,492,800 seconds ago. I live in a subterranean microcosm. The windows are always burning. My soul is pusillanimously made of mylar. You'll always see me as nothing more but a mere crux. I'll never fit into your apartment. My knight mirrors bleed with necromancy and echo every necrotic vehemence in life.