Maybe I'll wait for two thousand years, or maybe not. I dream of cube-shaped ancient tombs that start to close, slowly and excruciatingly on the outside fuck up. I clench my fists to contain my fingers and pull my toes further back into the shoes I'll be wearing the day I die. Cringing they call it, don't they? I'll be content with not getting them trapped, for now. I should have known.
Your pickaxe carving an island's edges for forty-eight hours (or more?) seems terrifying in retrospect. The sensation of floating is so lonely at first, until I drop anchor 141.265 miles away and rest, gathering my strength.
I have reset the compass. The pencil lines, joining scars on the map, have turned the other way. The negative image of your hard work, repeated around the perimeter of my cell, is eroding in the winds of something else for now.
My hair may be held still by the grasping fist of my ultimate pain, I cannot move in any precise direction. Stalemate with two crossed swords. My hair is thrashing my face, the stray tendrils that have already escaped reach towards the edges of the tornado that surrounds this god forsaken place.
If I move, I must do so quietly and without much fuss. I would like to think that your soul is sitting patiently outside of my Hell. Crossed-legged? Crossed-armed? Sword aloft? Would you ever do that for me?
... to be continued (in two thousand years)
SRWB 2010
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