If the mind is like a house, full of hallways full of doors beyond which are rooms full of doors beyond which are hallways full of doors, what must it be like to exist within? To be one of the muses, characters, specters, revenants, fictions trapped with no physical form to call their own? They are not completely free to wander, after all; not all doors open to their touch nor do all realms permit entry. Do they put their palms to the unyielding wood and wonder what memories or fantasies lay beyond that will never be theirs? A better childhood, a different future, a chance to be someone or something else, if only temporarily? Or do they avert their eyes as they pass by, refusing to entertain such a futile dream? Not all things are possible, even in the mind, and so the spirits must remain themselves even here. We are only who we are.