Raindrops come in patches or they come in droves, but I have yet to feel a storm here wet the ground. Is it something in the soil, instantly dissembling the fluid before it can saturate? What did you speak of dry soil Lord, my mind betrays me. Why worship one who works in mysterious ways…

The guards here are pleasant to me. I wish they would yell and scream, beat me with their bludgeons, spit on me, but they treat me like I’m their resurrected grandfather. They come to me, and I read their palms, whisper sweet nothings to them, lie to their faces. One, Christy, sees my despair and has pity on me, denying me food for days. I can’t help but smile when she pounds on my cell, disturbing me from untroubled sleep. ‘WAKE UP BLIND OLD MAN!’ She yells. ‘Ah!’ I scream in delight, ‘what is it? Have they come for me?’ ‘NO YOU BLIND OLD FOOL! CELL ROTATION!’ So my days fly by.

There are others here, kept in disparate rooms. I feel them filling by me, as the higher ups reshuffle us like playing cards. Are they trying to attain some inconceivable distribution? I think about speaking to my peers, but don’t know what to say. And then there’s my own ghosts, the ones I carry with me. Laura, my love. And the boy. Save me boy. Don’t let them hurt her.

I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time staring out the window of my cell.







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