text: A young man awakens with a breaking back, feeling ancient despite the twenty winters, and turns to his side. Drowsy and numb. He rises from his soft prison and puts on a pair of pants, the same of last night; a blinding star greets him from his window each day, so does a small bamboo on a glass tube adorned with a bronze coin. The bags under his eyes and his exhaustion remain eternal and the perpetual routine begins: He forces himself outside and flinches before the blinding gold of the skies, then looks down at his feet; healthy nature amidst a sea of endless concrete. Small vibrant flowers bring life into the oasis surrounded by the soulless white brick walls; improvised towers of plastic and tape are the homes of young and eager crops. The ancient young man watches them closely and caringly, he has named them: Monolith, Obelisk, Hope, Claw, Neo, Overflow... He quietly bestows them words of encouragement and is grateful. He rejoices in the presence of the bees, but despises that of the ants. Breakfast, a cup of mint tea or similar infusions, a handful of calories and then back into his self-inflicted sentence of isolation. Idiotic penance for thought-crimes. The pain grows for reasons well-known yet he ignores the cure and has chosen instead a half-assed treatment. Better than nothing. With each breath drawn, his ribs crackle along with his spine. With each letter typed onto the screen, fingers crackle. With each step taken, both his feet and knees crackle. With each passing minute, his mind crackles. He yearns for forgiveness that no one has He resigns to the numbness He dreams of morphine Before another soul, he fabricates a smile and a voice but behind them lies nothing. Only fear and weakness. Two voices argue and yell inside, one moves his body and the other, his mouth; they rarely agree. The first one yells without a tongue, the other does with two. A third one rises louder than the others, this one moves the soul. The mediator. The golden star begins to settle on the horizon, a warm infusion rests on the ancient’s desk. Peace. Hours passed, wasted? Perhaps. Futile are his dreams? Those of a calm morphine sea? Those of a day without screams? Those of a life without freezing fear? He will be handed no answer, for he has not yet earned it. The pale moon now rises, final meal of the day. He shares table with those who love him, yet he feels no warmth. Regret. A fabricated smile once again until the clock shows 10pm; he heads into the shower. The infernal water clashes with the arctic one and, in perfect synchrony, they drown both the pain and his poisonous thoughts. Serene. Methodical cleaning takes place, the skin breathes once more and the hair softens; the poison is washed away following the rhythm of soothing tunes. The clock now shows the 11th hour again, he heads back into his cell, feeling renewed. He leaves his pants on his obsidian chair, turns off the lights and partially jams the door. He returns to his soft prison of springs and cloth. The pain awakens just as he falls asleep, the nightmares continue. He dreams of burning flesh and twisted bone He resists the fear and the pain He dreams of cold morphine sea.