((You are alive — you can feel it. The wet, sticky dope on your skin, the mucus stuck in your throat, the chilly and humid, but comfortable environment around you — you can feel it. The sudden urge to wipe the dope from you, to clear your throat and spit out the mucus, to cover your body with something — you can feel it. The memories that are supposed to be yours, the necessity to evaluate your surroundings, the need to act like people expect you to — you can feel it. You succumb to the feeling immediately. The palms of your hands are quickly reaching out to your face, and the reflex makes you cough. A deep, bass sound comes out of your mouth with it. You hear that the dope fell down, making a splash underneath you. You spit out the mucus. The brain gets a new message: open the eyes. You slowly and cautiously do it. The sight is blurry, but it slowly clears as you look to your left and right. On your sides, there is a wet glass where you can see the image of yourself. Big blue eyes, lean jaw, aquiline nose, asymmetric, disproportionately large ears, and decades-old scars scattered all around. You are Frank Sinatra; you are 31 years old. You look forward; there is an exit from your capsule. There is a woman.))

She looks at you with teary eyes. You gave her a closer look. She is a beautiful, mature woman, and even though her mind is clearly blinded by your presence, she looks like a smart, serious, and important woman. Boom. Message to your brain: "Lilian, your soulmate, please her." — Yes! I did it! My dearest Frank! If this voice wasn't filled with happiness, you would have thought it was coming from a 60-year-old cab driver. It is almost uncanny to hear it from her pretty little mouth.