<em>Ingrid, snoozing and loving the wall</em><br/><br/>She began to snore softly, lost to an alcohol addled sleep, her dreams weird and unfocused.  She stirred but only moved a few fingers aside from cuddling closer to the wall.  It felt as if it had its arms around her. Soft and warm, yet strong and vibrant.  She liked the wall.  It was safe.<br/><br/>Better than the rest of her life. She could depend on the wall. Barring tragedy it would stand there, sturdy and reliable.<br/><br/>With no clue that time was passing or where she was, Ingrid slept soundly, in a drunken stupor for hours.  She snored loudly and then rolled over, cuddling up to the wall, as close as she could get to it.  Where was the wall?  She found it, something hard jabbing into her side but she didn't care less.<br/><br/>Sometime later, she awoke to the strong smell of coffee, her forehead with something cold and heavy on it.  Her head was busting open and it hurt to open her eyes.  She wasn't sure that she was completely sober, either.  Fuuuuuu.  "Fuck," she groaned, pushing at the heavy slug on her head.  Wash cloth.  Where was she?  She sat up and then groaned, flopping right back down and curling up into a ball on her side.  Must. Not. Stir.  Nope. It was better to hold really still and wait for the train in her head to pull into the stockyard.<br/>