Day 4

Year thirty of my imprisonment and I am still no closer to escape. The voices of the children bleed together like a chorus of crickets, so omnipresent that it sounds almost like silence. Each hand that rises is like a missile shot at the sun, and my answers to all questions are the like the falling of the debris.

That of course describes my academic classes. Once more I have sophomore study hall, and once more it is as if I have discovered a previously unknown civilization living on the edges of feral exultations and a compulsive desire to use the bathroom. I have no opinion of them yet.

It is too early in the year for my voice to hold any weight. Perhaps the muse of history, Clio will once again brush me with a wingtip of feathers crafted of light and will begin a rivulet that will become an overflow. For now I will observe and continue to look for a crack in the walls I built when I was young and now are too high for me to climb or even see over. Perhaps I will buy myself a new pen. That always makes me feel better for a few minutes. As a diversion, perhaps I'll choose a random child and give them a zero and never tell them why. If this is petty, then perhaps I am grown smaller in my captivity by lack of intellectual sustenance.