This would be mine. Yes, this would be the sin of my undoing. The ability to curl into myself and never see beyond the lining of my shell. Hours in the comfort of rest, repose and reading. Hours away, hours alone. But I get up before the fog arrives. I step out before it rains, before the shell floods my lungs with the cold, cool, currant. Yes, I take one last breath for air. But this would still be mine.