Where am I, I don't know. All I see are gray, steel, rusty objects and Bottles and liquids and lights. It hurts. It hurts to be looked at. I don't like those bright lights or those rusty, steel objects. I don't like it. It doesn't feel safe. I guess I can't necessarily say "feel" because, well, I really can't. I can't feel. I can't feel at all. I'm not sure why, but well, I just can't. Let's just say...
I'm an object. Objects don't feel, don't speak.
But oh man, they can hear and see.
They can hear you, see you.
No, they can't smell or eat.
Objects are too...
Unique for that.
I know these sorts of things because I've been here before, I've seen and listened to everything before. I'm an old object. I've learned some things.
Me, and these other objects with these big, steel, creatures, we're called "Bottles."
It's a weird name.
And us Bottles, we're going somewhere..
Somewhere noisy.
Somewhere to be taken away and then used.
And after that...
We're going to be put into a black tarp and thrown out somewhere.
Sometimes us Bottles will return.
Sometimes we rot in the landfills we're brought to.
Me, I've come back. Once again.
It's all about a thing called "Luck."
I'm not exactly sure what it means, but I have a lot of it.
A lot of Luck.
Although, I don't have the luck to feel.
Not yet.
I want to feel.
