Gonzo Journalism/Ship of Theusus

I keep waking up to find myself in the same unfamiliar place. Am I a prisoner? In exile? Is this the quantifiable Atlantis? Signs direct me from one to the next. Like the lilies, nearly silhouetted yet outlined in white by the earth's final turn away from the sun, lined up against some shitty orange cloth masking the construction site. Is it too naive to conclude anything from a good night of sleep when it's preceded then followed by a night of terror? Dreams of animals scurrying lead into a slap of reality as defined by 2:30 AM and an alert of an ax murderer some three hours north of here. How can I conclude anything when these horrors are then followed by a gratuitous message permitting information that I had been intentionally avoiding? Now I sit in futile attendance of this golden hour, hopeful that the sun sets on the cloth before the flowers. My skin is itchy and broken and I keep picking and picking just to reopen old scabs. If I continue to replace the scab with a new scab, does it remain the same wound?