He could tell because the door in front of him had a face.

A direct door with a face that clearly despised him. I mean, he said to himself, that door – it has a face, and it really hates me.

He could tell that by the expression on it. – By the fact it was staring at him directly in the eyes. – He'd seen several faces in the past; he couldn't specifically recall or name any because obviously he'd just been born, or reborn, or he'd – been birth-shat momentarily out of a process that meant he was new. Whatever. Really there were many things that didn't interest him that he could think about it, but the truth was that he'd forgotten who he was. There. It was that. But maybe that had never been particularly interesting; or maybe he'd never really known? Maybe that was who he actually was – and in fact there was an instinct that he apparently still had a connection to that informed him that this was so. This was the truth. It was this.

Anyway he'd seen faces – several even if he couldn't specifically recall and name them. He'd obviously at some point developed the talent of reading the emotions on faces, and whether those faces, and the emotions present upon them/expressed across them – what they were and whether in fact they were directed directly at him. And what they were.

He'd developed this skill because the face, that was the door – it wasn't so much that the door had a face – as it clearly was one. A face. It was door sized – actually more than door sized, larger than normal; not a domestic door but of that of an important edifice. It was wide too; it was several doors – it was a double door; two doors wide; two doors tall – quadruple – perhaps, kind of a rectangular square type face door thing at the end of the – he didn't know what this place was – street? Was it a street? Or a machine; or a bowel, or a corpse – but the important information was that the door at the other side of it hated him.

Really and specifically him. It hated him. In fact – if it wasn't a... dumb door – it would have been over here fighting him already considering how much it didn't like him – but as it was it was attached to a building because it was a door.

He set out toward it because fuck that door.

But how did he know, actually know, in this fashion that was a certainty, that he'd never really, really actually in reality known who he was and – anyway that. – And then that other thing again, as he thought this, informed him of the certainty of it – of its veracity. Even his – perhaps various talents or capacities, this thing accompanied these thoughts with a strange certainty – a strange sort of confirmation – as if this in fact was the capacity or talent that – it was confirmed again.

That that thing had. That that thing did. Whatever it was.

His consciousness; his emotions in response to it anyway imparted in him these certainties. It was not something that he could/should, anyway he thought, try to – it was confirmed – debate; that was stupid – he didn't have the proofs but it was so.

He had a talent or capacity to know what was true. Again, confirmed – and this was obvious; that this in fact in some way was who he was as well. Confirmed again by that same capacity; each logical step after the next. It was just – he was, apparently, this capacity to know.

He was this... talent, capacity, attribute... attribute. – This was who he was more than any name anyway which he didn't know but he had known, and perhaps now this was in fact the only difference between that and then, that he didn't know what his name was. – But this wasn't confirmed, and indeed the next logical step explained this lack of confirmation to him – he –

he had also had – that he'd lost now – memories.

– Who he was was this attribute, to know, what was true. 8 seconds of consciousness had imparted this verity to him. Fine. He liked that. But he had no memories; and he didn't know his name, and he didn't know who he was. Which anyway didn't matter, a thought that was in no way confirmed. So it did matter. Who he was, and strangely, the same time not really giving a fuck, this thought comforted him.

By which point he was almost at the hating door.