I’m in this enormous room made of stone. The thought of getting out has long passed and never came back, but there’s one thing I keep thinking about after all these endless years: Fire. A fire would be nice. Warmth would be nice.
I’m in this enormous room of stone. Out of boredom, I start to rub the shackle of my right wrist on the hook that is fixing my strains to the ground. Did the oxidized metal around my wrist just get thinner?