TRANSCRIPT: SOMNARIUM. S.009 – still missing

Case of Angela Taylor. First seen by Dr. Susan Renwyck on October 17th, 2005 for severe insomnia, recurring nightmares, and compulsive search behavior following the disappearance of her husband during a hiking trip one year earlier.

LISTEN ON:

PDF DOWNLOAD:

S.009 – Still Missing

<- Back to Transcripts

Next Episode ->

INTRO

I’ve been going through the new folder and there’s… so much information in here.

Pieces of case files are scattered everywhere. Some of them match missing halves of files I already had. It’s going to take time to put them back together.

There are also pages of what I think might be Dr. Renwyck’s diary, plus more email exchanges between Raynor and Renwyck. At some point, it seems they started investigating these cases together.

I… can’t thank Maddy enough for getting me these files. Whatever lies at the center of these events has to be in here somewhere.

I still can’t let go of what happened to her and May. I re-listened to the recording, and there’s clearly something sleep-related going on there too.

But Maddy doesn’t have nightmares. Or at least, none that she ever mentioned.

Maybe I’m trying to force a connection where there isn’t one.

[silence]

The first new case I’ve managed to piece together is about a woman whose husband vanished during a hiking trip in a national park. Unable to accept his disappearance, she began suffering from severe nightmares and eventually sought treatment from Dr. Renwyck.

PATIENT APPLICATION

Applicant: Angela Taylor
Date: October 13th, 2005
Referral: Dr. [REDACTED]

Dr. Renwyck,

My name is Angela Taylor and I’m writing this letter in hopes of getting help.

Your office told me an application letter would be the fastest way to get an appointment, provided I included enough background information for you to evaluate my case.

369 days. That’s how long my husband Adam has been missing.

I don’t know how else to explain this except to start at the beginning.

My husband and I love hiking. Every weekend we go hiking in Noren National Park, or… we used to at least.

It was a cool autumn Saturday morning and we arrived at the park a little after 9. We had prepared to hike our favourite trail. Three hours up and three hours down. At the highest point of the hike is an overlook where you can see Lake Noren in all its majesty. At midday, with the sun shining brightly, the lake looks like an enormous mirror. It’s absolutely stunning.

Besides the fact that the overlook is such a beautiful place, it’s also the spot that Adam asked me to marry him. With a view like that, how could I have said no?

It was almost noon and we had made our way to the overlook in record time. The trail was recently cleaned up by the park rangers, as a recent storm had put a lot of debris and fallen trees on the path. The weather was better than we expected and the trail was in good shape again.

We sat on this log bench that’s been there for as long as we’ve known and just enjoyed the view for a while. Adam had made some sandwiches for lunch and we were fueling up for the hike back down.

At some point, Adam said he was going to find a place to have a bathroom break. And well, you know, it’s the forest. It’s not like there’s a bathroom out there.

I just sat there, looking at the lake, kind of zoning out. A few minutes passed and… Adam wasn’t back yet.

I wasn’t worried, though maybe I should’ve been. Adam’s a big guy and he can take care of himself.

Ten minutes had passed and he still wasn’t back yet. I called out to him, expecting him to shout back but… nothing.

I thought okay, that’s it, I’m calling his cell. But not surprisingly, there was no reception up there.

I started shouting then.

“This isn’t funny Adam.”
“Stop it honey, please.”
“You’re scaring me.”

But all I heard was silence. No rustling, no birds, no wind. Just… nothing.

At that point I stopped hesitating, I started looking in the treeline around the overlook. Maybe he had fallen and injured himself?

I couldn’t find him… anywhere.

There was nothing else I could do. If Adam was in trouble I needed to get help.
It made perfect sense in my head, it was the middle of the day, there was still plenty of daylight. If I could just make it far enough down to get even the smallest hint of a cell signal I could call the park rangers for help.

So I left, I started hiking down.

The whole time I kept thinking, he’s going to be fine. He can take care of himself.

It was nearly an hour and a half later when I finally got a cell signal stable enough to make a call. When I finally got through to the park rangers, they told me to hike back up to where he was last seen and wait there until the rangers get there. With any luck, Adam would’ve found his way back to the overlook by now and he’d be waiting for me.

I nearly ran back up the trail to the overlook but Adam wasn’t there. Half an hour later, two park rangers arrived by ATV.

One of them asked where I last saw Adam and I pointed over to the treeline. The other ranger came over to ask me a bunch of questions.

How long has he been missing?
Does he have any health issues?
Was he injured?
Did you hear anything when he disappeared?

The other ranger called over and appeared out of the treeline and when I saw what he was holding my heart sank to my stomach.

He was holding up Adam’s backpack.

“Ma’am, is this your husband’s backpack?”

“Yes” I answered shakily. “That’s his.”

Without exchanging much more than a glance, the park ranger next to me got out his radio and called it in.

“Possible belonging recovered. Missing male, early 30s, last seen near the lake overlook. Backpack located. Requesting search and rescue support ASAP.”

By evening there were more people on that mountain than I could count. More rangers, volunteers, dogs. They started calling Adam’s name into the trees, over and over again, like the forest might eventually decide to give him back.

I remember standing there while the sun went down, watching their flashlights move through the woods below the overlook. Every time someone shouted, every time a radio crackled, my heart stopped. I kept thinking the next call would be someone saying they found him.

But they didn’t.

They searched through the night and again the next morning. They asked me what he had been wearing, whether he knew the area well, whether he would have tried to take another trail down on his own. I answered every question they asked, sometimes more than once because I could barely think straight.

They found no sign of a fall, no sign of a struggle, no blood, no torn clothing. Nothing except his backpack.

At first everyone told me not to lose hope. That people had been found after longer. That Adam knew the trails. That he was strong. I held on to that for as long as I could. But after the first few days the search changed. There were fewer people. Less urgency. Their voices got softer when they talked to me.

Eventually they stopped saying “when we find him” and started saying “if.”

I could not accept that. I still can’t.

Since that day I have gone back to Noren National Park every weekend. At first I told myself I was helping. That maybe I would notice something the others missed. A trail marker out of place. A dropped piece of clothing. A path leading off the main route.

In the beginning, family and friends came with me. They hiked the trails, called his name, and told me not to give up. But as the weeks turned into months, they stopped coming. One by one they returned to their lives, while I kept going back.

Now every time I get to the park, I stop at the ranger station first and ask the same question: whether they found anything. Anything at all. A piece of clothing. A phone. A watch. Some sign that he was still alive after I left that overlook. The answer is always no.

Over time it became something else. I walk the same trails, call his name, listen for an answer that never comes. Sometimes I think I hear movement in the trees and I follow it. Sometimes I think I see someone standing ahead of me, just far enough away that I can’t make out their face. Every time, when I get closer, there is nothing there.

Part of me still believes that if I had stayed at the overlook, Adam would have come back and none of this would have happened.

Lately it has followed me into my sleep. I dream that Adam is still in the park, alive, trying to call me, and that I am always only a few minutes behind him. In the dreams I hear his voice, but I can never reach him.

I wake up exhausted, and no matter how little sleep I get, I keep going back to that place. I know this is not normal anymore. I know I’m stuck somewhere between hope and grief and I don’t know how to get out.

I am writing to you because I need help before I lose myself there completely.

CONSULTATION NOTE

Patient: Angela Taylor
Date: October 17th, 2005
Subject: Initial consultation; transcription of tape recording

Ms. Taylor presented for an initial consultation following the disappearance of her husband, Adam Taylor, on October 9th, 2004 during a hiking trip in Noren National Park.

The patient was calm and cooperative throughout most of the session, though visibly fatigued. Speech was coherent, organized, and relevant. No obvious signs of confusion or formal thought disturbance were observed. She showed little outward emotion for most of the session, but she became notably distressed when discussing the circumstances of her husband’s disappearance and the events that followed.

Ms. Taylor reports difficulty falling asleep, frequent waking, and recurrent nightmares in which her husband remains somewhere inside the park, calling to her from out of reach. Symptoms have worsened in recent weeks, particularly around the one-year mark of the disappearance.

A significant part of the consultation focused on her continued weekend returns to the park. While Ms. Taylor recognizes that this behavior is excessive and unsustainable, she appears emotionally unable to stop.

The patient expressed persistent guilt over leaving the overlook area to seek help on the day of the disappearance. She continues to hold onto the idea that, had she remained there, her husband may have returned. This belief appears to be reinforcing both the repeated search behavior and the sleep disturbance surrounding it.

At this stage, Ms. Taylor does not present as psychotic or frankly delusional. She does not deny the possibility that her husband is dead, but she is unable to tolerate that conclusion in any final sense. She remains psychologically fixed in a state of searching, both literally and emotionally.

I did not recommend immediate cessation of the weekend visits. In the patient’s current state, a sudden demand to stop altogether would likely be poorly tolerated and may increase distress rather than reduce it. Instead, I advised a limited first step. Ms. Taylor was instructed to restrict park visits to Saturdays only, and to reserve Sundays for rest and recovery. The aim is not to validate the compulsive behavior, but to begin introducing structure and reducing its hold over her routine.

Medication was not introduced at this stage. While the patient is clearly sleep deprived, the underlying issue appears to be unresolved trauma complicated by obsessive search behavior and survivor guilt. For the present, I believe a more conservative approach is appropriate.

Ms. Taylor was advised to keep a written record of her sleep, including how long she sleeps, how often the nightmares occur, and any urge to return to the park outside the agreed schedule. For now, treatment will focus on stabilization, monitoring her symptoms, and seeing whether improved routine and gradual behavioral limits reduce her distress before medication is considered.

SLEEP DIARY

The diary is unfortunately incomplete, what I have here is not the original but rather the surviving transcription of the diary. It is unknown what happened to the original.

Tuesday, October 18th, 2005

I saw Dr. Renwyck for the first time yesterday. She tried to be compassionate but she just thinks I can’t let go. That I have some kind of compulsion.

We talked about Adam and my continued search for him. She said that my difficulty sleeping is likely tied to an anniversary reaction. It’s been a little over a year since Adam went missing, and according to her that’s why my mind is having trouble resting.

I got emotional during the consultation, especially when she suggested I stop going to the park on Sundays.

How can I do that? How can I just give up on my Adam like that?

She doesn’t get it. She talks about rest like it’s simple. Like taking one day off won’t feel like turning my back on him.

I miss him so much. It hurts.

You know how they say that a person can complete you? That’s what Adam is to me.

How am I supposed to sleep in a cold, empty bed?

Saturday, October 22nd, 2005

I slept terribly again. The bed feels too big when it’s just me in it.

Nearly every night I catch myself reaching across the sheets, half-asleep, looking for Adam before I remember he’s not there.

I dreamt about the park again. I could hear him calling for help somewhere in the distance. Every time I thought I was getting closer, his voice would move farther away. He’s always just out of reach.

I’m going back to the park today. I’ll stop at the ranger station first, like I always do, just in case they found something this week. Anything at all.

Then I’ll make the hike up to the overlook.

Dr. Renwyck said I should only go on Saturdays and spend Sundays resting. I told her I understood. I even meant it when I said it.

But already I know tomorrow is going to feel worse than today.

Sunday, October 23rd, 2005

I barely slept last night.

I was exhausted when I got home from the park, but the moment I lay down my mind started replaying everything. Every turn in the trail. Every place I stopped to listen. Every patch of trees I stared at a little too long. I must have drifted off eventually, but it didn’t feel like real sleep.

Yesterday went the same way it always does. I stopped at the ranger station first. They hadn’t found anything. No new reports, no belongings turned in, no signs that anyone had seen Adam. I thanked them, even though I could tell they were just giving me the same answer they always do.

I made the hike up to the overlook after that. The weather was cold but clear. There were a few other hikers on the trail at first, enough that I almost felt foolish for thinking anything might happen at all.

But the higher I got, the quieter it became.

I know forests get quiet sometimes. I know that. But this felt different. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of silence that makes you stop walking just to hear if anything at all is still moving around you.

No birds. No insects. No wind in the trees.

Just my own footsteps and my breathing.

It only lasted maybe a minute. Maybe less. Then the sounds came back all at once, like nothing had happened.

I told myself I was imagining it. That I was tired. That because I was already thinking about Adam, I noticed the silence more than I normally would.

For a second, when everything went quiet, I really believed that if I turned around quickly enough I would see him.

When I reached the overlook, I caught myself looking toward the treeline before I even looked at the lake.

Still, I kept thinking about it the whole way home.

Dr. Renwyck told me to rest today, so I’m trying. But all resting seems to do is leave me alone with my thoughts.

Maybe I should just go to the ranger station today. Just for a quick check, in case they found anything.

Sunday, October 29th, 2005

I hardly slept at all last night.

Every time I started drifting off, I was back at the overlook again. Back on that bench. Back listening for him.

Yesterday started the same way it always does. I drove out to the park in the morning, stopped at the ranger station, and asked the same question I’ve been asking for over a year now. They hadn’t found anything. No belongings. No reports. No sign of Adam.

So I made the hike up to the overlook.

I don’t even really think about the trail anymore. My body just knows it. I know where the ground starts to slope. I know where the trees thin out. I know exactly how long it takes before the sounds of the parking lot and the main paths disappear behind me.

It got quiet again on the way up.

Not all at once. Just little by little, until I realized I couldn’t hear any birds anymore. Then no insects. Then nothing except my own breathing and the sound of my boots on the trail.

I kept walking.

By the time I reached the overlook, the silence was gone. The wind was moving again. I could hear leaves shifting in the trees. I told myself that was proof enough that I was just tired and working myself up.

I sat down on the bench for a while and looked out over the lake. I started thinking about Adam asking me to marry him there. The way he smiled before he even got the words out. The way his hands shook because he was nervous, even though he tried to laugh it off after.

I don’t know how long I sat there like that.

Then I heard my name.

Just once.

“Angela.”

It was Adam’s voice.

Not something that sounded like him. Not my imagination twisting a sound in the wind. It was his voice. Clear enough that I turned around immediately and stood up so fast I almost slipped.

There was no one there.

I called out for him. I waited. I listened so hard it hurt.

Nothing answered me.

I know how this sounds. I know what Dr. Renwyck would probably say. Exhaustion. Grief. Wishful thinking. But I know my husband’s voice. If I heard anyone else call my name that way, I wouldn’t have thought twice about who it was.

I barely remember the walk back down after that. I just remember feeling sick the whole drive home, like I had come too close to something and let it slip away again.

And then last night I dreamt it over and over. Adam calling my name from somewhere just beyond the trees. Me getting up from the bench. Me following his voice. Me arriving too late every single time.

I don’t know what scares me more. That I imagined it.

Or that I didn’t.

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2005

I have not been sleeping well at all.

Even on the nights where I do eventually fall asleep, it doesn’t last. I keep waking up suddenly, already tense, like some part of me has been listening for something the whole time.

Last night I woke up just before 3 in the morning because I was sure I heard Adam say my name.

Not in a dream. Not half inside a dream, either. I was awake by the time I heard it. It was quiet and close, like he was standing just outside the bedroom door.

I sat up so fast I nearly fell out of bed.

The room felt strangely cold. Not drafty, not like a window had been left open. Just cold in that still, empty way a room feels when it hasn’t been lived in for a long time.

I listened for a long time after that, but there was nothing. No footsteps. No voice. No sound anywhere in the house.

Still, I got up and checked every room.

I even opened the front door and stood there in the cold for a minute like an idiot, staring out into the dark.

Of course no one was there.

I keep thinking back to what happened at the overlook on Saturday. The way I heard him say my name. The certainty of it. I know what I heard. I don’t care how tired I was.

I have tried to follow Dr. Renwyck’s advice. I only went to the park on Saturday. I stayed home on Sunday, even though every part of me wanted to go back. But it doesn’t feel like resting. It feels like waiting.

Waiting for Saturday. Waiting for sleep. Waiting for Adam.

I know how this sounds written out like this.

But if he is trying to reach me, I can’t be the one who stops listening.

Sunday, November 6th, 2005

I’m tired all the time now, and I can’t seem to get warm.

I stayed at the park far too long yesterday. Longer than I meant to. I told myself I was only going to check the ranger station, then maybe walk part of the trail, just enough to clear my head. But once I started up toward the overlook, I kept going.

The rangers hadn’t found anything. Same as always.

I remember the trail feeling quieter much earlier this time. Not completely silent at first, just wrong somehow. Like the sounds around me were thinning out the higher I climbed. By the time I reached the overlook, it felt like I was the only living thing left on the mountain.

I sat on the bench for a while, longer than I should have. I kept thinking about Adam. About the day he proposed. About the way he laughed when I cried and told him yes before he’d even properly finished asking.

Then I heard something behind me.

Not my name this time. Footsteps.

Slow, uneven, close enough that I was sure if I turned around I would see him coming out from the treeline.

I stood up and turned, but there was no one there.

I should have left then. I know that. Instead I waited. I listened. I called out for him once, then again, louder. I don’t know why I was whispering at first. Maybe some part of me was afraid that if I spoke too loudly, whatever was there would stop answering.

After that, things get harder to put in order.

I remember leaving the overlook. I remember hearing movement off the trail to my right and following it. I remember seeing something pale between the trees — not a face, not clearly, just the shape of someone standing where no one should have been. And I remember being absolutely sure it was Adam.

I don’t know how long I was off the trail.

By the time I found my way back, it was already getting dark.

I don’t remember much of the walk down. Just flashes. The beam of my flashlight shaking in my hand. The cold. The feeling that something was moving ahead of me, always just beyond where the light reached. Once or twice I thought I heard Adam’s voice again, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

When I got back to the parking lot, there were only a few cars left.

I sat in mine for a long time before driving home.

Dr. Renwyck said I was supposed to rest on Sundays. I don’t know how I’m supposed to rest after something like that.

I keep telling myself I was exhausted. That I got turned around because it was getting dark. That grief can make a person hear things, see things, believe things they otherwise wouldn’t.

But if that’s true, why did it feel so much like he was trying to lead me somewhere?

Sunday, November 13th, 2005

It’s so cold everywhere, all the time.

I don’t think I slept more than an hour last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back on the trail. Back in the dark. Back hearing something moving just ahead of me.

I should not have stayed in the park until dark again yesterday, but I did.

I told myself I would be careful this time. I told myself I would check the ranger station, make the hike up to the overlook, stay for a little while, and head back down before sunset.

The ranger station had nothing new to tell me. I barely heard half of what they said. I was already thinking about the trail.

By the time I started the climb, my hands were so cold they hurt even inside my gloves. The air felt sharper than it should have. Not like ordinary autumn cold. It felt dead. Still. Like all the warmth had been taken out of the mountain and nothing living had been left behind to notice.

There were other hikers lower down, I think. I remember passing at least one couple near the start. After that, no one. Or maybe I stopped noticing them. I don’t know.

The silence started earlier again.

It happened gradually. First the birds. Then the wind. Then the branches overhead. All that was left was the sound of my breathing and my boots on the trail.

I should have turned around then.

Instead I kept walking because by that point I knew what it meant.

He was close.

When I reached the overlook, I didn’t even look at the lake. I went straight to the bench and stared at the treeline. I sat there listening so hard that every muscle in my body ached.

At first there was nothing.

Then I heard him.

Not just my name this time.

“Angela.”

Then, a few seconds later, clearer:

“I’m here.”

I was on my feet before I even realized I’d moved.

The voice came from beyond the trees to the right of the overlook, from the same direction Adam had gone that day. I called out to him immediately. I said his name over and over. My voice sounded wrong in all that silence, too loud and too small at the same time.

He answered me.

I know he did.

I can’t write exactly what he said because every time I try to put it down it starts to sound unreal, like if I see the words on the page I’ll ruin it somehow. But it was Adam. It was his voice, strained and distant and weak, like he had been trying to reach me for a very long time.

I went into the treeline.

I did not stay on the trail.

I don’t know how far I walked. Ten minutes maybe. Maybe longer. It was hard to tell because nothing in there felt normal. The ground dipped and rose in ways I didn’t recognize. Trees seemed closer together than they should have been. More than once I turned around thinking I should still be able to see the overlook behind me, and there was nothing there except more trees.

I kept hearing him ahead of me.

Sometimes close enough that I would start moving faster, half running, slipping on leaves and roots and catching myself on branches. Then the voice would shift again. Farther away. Off to one side. Then in front of me again.

Once I was sure I saw him.

A man standing between two trees with his back turned to me, broad shoulders, dark jacket, the exact way Adam would stand when he was trying to listen for something in the distance.

I started toward him and I remember saying, “Adam, don’t move. Please, don’t move.”

Then he was gone.

I don’t know if he stepped away or if there had never been anyone there at all. I only know that by then I was panicking. My breathing was too fast. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t feel my fingers properly anymore.

I called his name until my throat hurt.

At one point I nearly fell down a slope I hadn’t seen until the ground gave way under me. I caught myself on a tree root and just stayed there for a while, crouched in the dirt, trying not to cry, trying to listen.

And then I heard him again.

Closer than before.

“Angela… please.”

There was something desperate in his voice. Something tired.

I got up and kept going.

After that, things stop feeling like one continuous memory. I remember pieces.

I remember my flashlight beam skipping wildly over trunks and rocks after it got dark.

I remember the cold getting worse and worse until it felt like it was inside me, not around me.

I remember hearing movement behind me and in front of me at the same time.

I remember shouting that I was there, that I was coming, that I wasn’t leaving him again.

At some point I must have found the trail back down, because I made it to my car. I don’t remember the walk back. I don’t remember the parking lot. I only remember sitting behind the wheel with the engine off, unable to stop shaking.

I came home somehow.

My clothes smelled like wet earth and pine. My shoes were caked in mud. I don’t remember taking them off. I don’t remember getting into bed.

I only know that when I closed my eyes I could still hear him.

He’s there.

I know he is.

I was close yesterday. Closer than I have been since the day he disappeared.

I keep thinking about what Dr. Renwyck said, about rest, about routine, about boundaries. None of that matters now. None of it means anything if Adam is still out there waiting for me.

I’m going back.

I am not leaving him there again.

This time, I’m bringing him home.

PATIENT RECORD ADDENDUM

Patient: Angela Taylor
Date: November 14th, 2005
Subject: Recovery of sleep diary; visit from Raynor, J

Detective Raynor arrived at the clinic this morning after being contacted by park authorities in relation to Ms. Taylor’s disappearance. According to the information provided, Ms. Taylor’s vehicle was found in the parking area of Noren National Park earlier today. Rangers on site believe the vehicle had likely remained there since Sunday evening.

The detective further stated that park staff found it unusual that no one could clearly account for seeing Ms. Taylor leave the grounds. Given her established habit of returning to the park on weekends, her continued presence in the area does not appear to have raised immediate concern. By the time the matter was formally escalated, a full night had already passed.

The detective brought with him a handwritten sleep diary belonging to Ms. Taylor, recovered during a preliminary review of her personal effects. Unfortunately the diary suffered severe water damage.

The diary reflects worsening insomnia, recurrent nightmares, increasing fixation on the park, and growing difficulty distinguishing between memory, expectation, and perceived external stimuli.

At the time of initial consultation, Ms. Taylor retained partial insight. She was able to acknowledge that her repeated visits to the park had become excessive, even if she remained emotionally unwilling to stop. The diary suggests that this insight deteriorated significantly over the following weeks. Her writing becomes more repetitive, more urgent, and increasingly organized around one fixed belief: that she was close to finding him, and that one more search would finally bring resolution.

I had advised Ms. Taylor to limit visits to the park to Saturdays only, with Sundays reserved for rest and recovery. Based on the diary, that recommendation was not maintained. The patient’s search behavior appears to have intensified rather than diminished, and by the final entry had developed into a state of near-total preoccupation.

At present, no conclusion can be drawn regarding the exact circumstances of Ms. Taylor’s disappearance. However, it is my opinion that her unresolved traumatic grief, survivor guilt, and compulsive search behavior had reached a point of acute psychological danger. The park had ceased to function, in her mind, as the site of a past loss.

It had become the only place in which that loss still felt reversible.

A search and rescue operation is currently underway in an effort to locate Ms. Taylor.

CONCLUSION

And… that’s where the file ends.

Adam Taylor disappears on October 9th, 2004. More than a year later, Angela disappears too.

That’s what gets me about this case. Not just that something took Adam. But that whatever happened after that seemed to know exactly what to do with the person he left behind.

Angela wasn’t dragged into that park all at once. She kept going back on her own. One trail at a time. One weekend at a time. One more check at the ranger station. One more climb to the overlook. One more memory on the bench. One more voice in the trees.

She was spiraling in repetition.

By the end of that diary, Angela wasn’t really searching anymore. She was being led.

I keep thinking about that final line.

“I am not leaving him there again.”

Maybe she found Adam.

Or maybe whatever was calling to her just finally learned exactly what she needed to hear.

Either way, as far as I can tell nobody ever found Angela and Adam Taylor.

I can’t stop thinking about how many people in these files were already halfway gone before they ever understood what was happening to them.

Anyway… That’s all for today.

NO FURTHER MATERIAL RECOVERED

OUTRO PLAYS