musicwordsandme

Silence. White walls, white ceiling. Every imperfection in the paint is as known to me as my own hand. Silence. I wish I had a clock, not to know the time, it's irrelevant, but so I can hear the tick. I want to know I'm, alive. But am I alive? I wonder, glancing up at the single bulb above my head. Not that it would make a difference either way; I'm as good as dead. But I press my face to the cool tiles beneath me and try to convince myself there's hope anyway. Of course there's none, and I know it. Days, weeks, years, I don't even know how long it's been, but nothing has changed since my confinement began, and nothing can change.