You are in a room with no windows to tell you the time of day or season, so you can’t really tell if the nuclear winter is frosting the outsides of the concrete belly you are in. Clocks and calendars were locked out when your drugged self was locked in, so your days have gathered the shade of night and night the unblinking stare of day.
You are in a room with only yourself to listen to, with only the crossroads in your palms to follow and a bigoted sense of humor that keeps you curious. No mirrors to grant your wishful stares any cogitation or cracks in the wall’s beastly skin through which you may belie a world outside to exist.
You are in a room whose walls you pulled up when you gouged away the power to see and windows you blackened with tarred words. It’s mirrors you melted into the mud when you cast your heart in it’s silver and clocks you bared naked when athanasia you chose.