How can a man write out his woes without the tears welding in his eyes falling with every stroke? As yet another door shutters before slamming in his face. Will he ever come to forget the pain that trails within those tears? Will he ever come to terms with who he is as a person, and uphold a certain contentment with being subpar? But how could a captive forget wrought steel, as cold and spiritually incarcerating as bare feet on concrete? Or the dust, compiled as tarry crust, outlining the walls and creeping along corners? Or the spindles of webs from spiders long vanished, grains of sand in time’s dunes? Or the mice, terrorizing him for morsels of food, drinking his water, stealing what little sustenance he has left. Devouring what remains of his sanity.

Is there more to life than the crude sentiments sparsely disseminated between forgotten memories?

He asks, and asks, and asks, knowing the answer dwells in the void. But by the end of the day, he’ll tell himself:

The answer is in tomorrow.