The bar seemed familiar, the walls scarred with years of mosh pits taking its toll. The punk scene had calmed down, or at least there wasn't a live band tonight. I was still fuzzy on the reason of why I brought myself here, maybe this is where the hole in my mind started, or as I fear where it ends. An 'End of Days' poster lays on the floor, I think I was at that show. The singers artificial vocal cord visible even on the poster, to bad too, she was too beautiful to have to worry about the scars. they would plague her for the rest of her days. The thought strikes me that I could literally tell how deep the implant was just by looking at the surface plating, was I a specialist in my lost life, or was an implant junky?